


Dysfunctional

by alien_wlw (orphan_account)



Series: Dys Verse [1]
Category: Fall Out Boy, I Don't Know How But They Found Me (Band), Panic! at the Disco, Twenty One Pilots
Genre: Bottom Brendon Urie, Crack, Crack Treated Seriously, Crying, Dysfunctional Family, Everyone Is Gay, Family Drama, Fluff and Angst, High School, I'm Going to Hell, I'm actually kind of proud of this one, It's better than the summary I promise, It's not sad but there is sad shit in it, Light Angst, Light Smut, M/M, Recreational Drug Use, Top Dallon Weekes, let me know if I missed anything, sin - Freeform, so much sin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-28
Updated: 2020-05-16
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:08:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 35,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21995005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/alien_wlw
Summary: Pete and Patrick knew four kids would be a handful. But they figured with love, kindness, and a little bit of luck, they could battle through anything.Now, they are the two chaotic leaders of one deeply dysfunctional family.Brendon is insatiable.Jon is stoned.Ryan is quiet, all of the time.Spencer just wants everyone to get along.Shit. Gets. Crazy.(Story discontinued because of recent discoveries about Brendon Urie. You can still read it if you'd like, but it kind of ends on a cliffhanger. Sorry to anyone who wanted an update.)
Relationships: Brendon Urie/Dallon Weekes, Josh Dun/Tyler Joseph, Patrick Stump/Pete Wentz
Series: Dys Verse [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1628056
Comments: 27
Kudos: 73





	1. The Family

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this fanfiction for one person. To that one person, hi. Thanks. Love ya.

Pete breathed a sigh of relief as he stepped inside, Patrick not far behind him. It had been a long night of searching for Brent, of peeking into alleyways and frantically calling anyone who might’ve seen him. But Brent, their freshly sixteen adopted son, had been gone two weeks now, and they were starting to give up hope.

What they hadn’t given up hope on was a small boy nestled in Patrick’s arms—they’d found him on their search. Patrick had taken one look at his crumpled-up little body, and knew he couldn’t just leave him lying there. His name was Jon, as the boy had said shortly before passing out. And Pete was ready to adopt.

“It just seems a little hasty,” Patrick said sternly. “We don’t know if he’s a runaway, or genuine orphan. We might be literally kidnapping a child here. Not to mention Brent is still gone--”

“I can teach him bass guitar!” Pete said, oblivious. “And make him guitar picks with my face on it! Then whenever he’s playing, he can look down at his pick and I’ll be there, offering words of wisdom like, ‘only boil mayonnaise when you’re thirsty!’ and ‘I love you more than your real parents so don’t bother looking for them!’”

Patrick frowned. “We are so not doing that.”

Just then, a very sleepy Brendon awoke. “Here I am!” he said, his voice not as loud as he would've liked it to be. He was wearing a pink onesie and was much tinier than Jon, almost disappearing into the hot pink carpet.

“Hey honey,” Patrick said sweetly. “Why are you up this late?”

“Better go back to bed soon, ya bastard,” Pete added.

Brendon rubbed his eyes. “Where’s Brent?”

Patrick swallowed, and shot Pete a glance. “Well, um, ya see—“ Pete scratched the back of neck. “When a father and adopted son love each other very much, but the adopted son is kind of super weird, sometimes kills rabbits, and is also into hard drugs—“

“Pete!”

“Oh come on Patrick, this lil guy is so going to do weed later. I can feel it in my bones.”

Patrick’s eyes widened. “Peter!”

Brendon looked up at his two dads with giant, glistening baby eyes. His pink lower lip trembled with exhaustion. “Who’s that twink?” He asked, pointing at the still asleep Jon.

“You taught him that,” Patrick muttered. “That’s on you. That is, undoubtedly, on you.”

Ignoring his husband for once, Pete set Jon gently down on the floor. “This is your new brother!” he whispered. “I’m going to teach him to play bass!”

“Cool!” Brendon squealed, and shook Jon roughly.

Jon woke up to an excited Brendon staring at him, the toddler’s curious eyes taking in his every feature. “Hi Brent!” Brendon said brightly.

“N-not Brent.”

“Oh, ok.” Brendon sucked on his bottom lip. “Wanna be friends?”

“Oh-um. Sure?”

Patrick sighed. And that was that.

\---Present Times---

“Yo, if you like were a bread product, ya know, like what kind of bread would you be?” Brendon pondered in between sips of Capri Sun. He was hanging out in his parent’s shopping cart, content to be sandwiched between two cartons of eggs and a box of hot pockets.

Patrick, the one pushing the shopping cart, was not so amused. “Brendon, sweetie, how did you come up with that question?” He asked.

“I think I’d be a bagel,” Jon said confidently. “Like, one with butter though. Bagels suck without butter.”

“Amen,” Pete added. He was sitting precariously on a tomato soup can display, and valiantly ignoring the efforts of a store employee to shoo him off. “Hey, I bet I’m a bear claw.”

“Sir—“ the employee begged. “Sir, please, you could fall—“

“Y’all hear something?”

Brendon folded his arms. “Nope.”

Pete shrugged. “Then I don’t either.”

“Where’s Ryan?” Spencer shouted from an aisle over. “Has anyone seen Ryan? Sir? Have you seen my brother? We look nothing alike, but that’s cause we’re adopted. He’s super skinny and tiny and has a Beatles haircut even though I told him it would be a bad idea. It looks bad. Well, not that bad, but still pretty bad. Sir? He wears this ridiculous vest, like seriously—”

“Damn, Spence dropping some right disses on my bro Ryan,” Brendon said after tossing his empty Capri Sun to the floor. “I might just throw hands.”

“Bren please don’t—wait what?” Patrick gasped. “Ryan’s missing? Oh my god I’m such a bad parent, oh my god—“

Pete yawned, and lay down on the soups. “What’s going on?”

“Ryan’s missing!” Patrick screeched, and promptly ran off.

Brendon, now Capri-Sun less, and in a rather awkward position, sighed. “I bet I’m a croissant,” he said to himself as he stared up at the ceiling.

“Dope,” Pete remarked from beneath a mountain of fallen cans.

It was a long time until they found Ryan. The family, well, most of the family, scoured the mall, looking in all the wrong places—“we are not looking for Ryan in a sex shop, not even if he is in there.” “Aw, you’re no fun.“—and asking many unfortunate strangers if they had seen a young, scrawny kid wearing a hippie bandana. Patrick was the one most stressed out by it all, constantly pacing back and forth; muttering curse words under his breath so the boys wouldn’t hear (they totally heard).

Then, as suddenly as he’d disappeared, Ryan turned up, a dictionary in his hands and confused expression on his face. Patrick hurriedly crushed him in a hug.

“I was so worried!” Patrick pulled back to squeeze Ryan’s cheeks. “Don’t you ever run away again, you hear me? Never! Ever!”

“I—“

“The next time you do that, I will go into your room, tear apart every last tie dye shirt you own, and with that old sewing machine I have—“

“Dad—“

“No, you listen to me. I will take those scraps of tie dye. Those little hippie garments. And I will make them into a dress. A long, flowing dress that has a train of five feet. It will be a wedding dress. A gorgeous, bedazzled, hippie wedding dress. And you will be the bride.”

“What—“

“That’s right. I will throw you a fake wedding. And you will wear the dress. And I will make brownies. But you will not eat them. They will be the most delicious brownies ever made. But not for you. That will be your punishment.”

Ryan let out a noise that sounded suspiciously like a whimper.

“Who’d be the groom?” Spencer asked, confused.

Patrick paused. “Ok admittedly I haven’t thought that far ahead yet—“

Patrick was (thankfully) interrupted by Brendon's decision to then make his grand entrance, riding in yet on another shopping cart, this one pushed by Pete. He held his phone aloft like some kind of biblical figure, showing the word of god to the masses. “Guess who just received a—“ he allowed himself a dramatic pause “—dick pic!”

Patrick put his head in his hands.

Pete shrugged. “I mean, it’s not a bad dick. Like, let’s be real.”

“This is very un-christian,” Jon said with an over dramatic shake of his head. “There will be no dick pics on my Christian Minecraft server.”

Meanwhile, Spencer and Brendon were huddled over the latter’s phone. “Love that it’s sent with absolutely no context,” Spencer remarked. “I mean, that just opens it up to so much interpretation.”

“I know, right? Like, is it flirty? Is it a simple hello, from man to man? A request for a picture of mine own dick? Or does he simply want to show off, I mean, come on, that is huge.“ Brendon squinted his eyes at the image, as if to decipher some hidden message.

At that, Patrick sat down on the floor, and closed his eyes. “Why,” he said softly, more to himself than anyone else.

Pete snorted. “Ah, come on Patrick, it’s not like you’ve never seen a dick before.”

Brendon cackled, and began to sing a little something to the tune of ‘Mary had a Little Lamb.’ “My two dads had S-E-X! My two dads had S-E-X! My two dads had S-E-X and now we live in sin!” He ended the song by banging two pots together. The sound caused a nearby grey-haired woman to grasp her chest. and fall to the ground.

Spencer snorted.

“Ok, you know what?” Patrick got up suddenly, a fire in his eyes. “That's it. All I wanted was a normal family outing. That. Is all. I wanted. But now you’ve all ruined it, so we’re going back into the car now. And I will be taking everyone’s brownies away. You have all disappointed me today. Greatly.”

Patrick sighed, and put his hands on his hips. “But one of you was the most disappointing.”

“Is it me, Jesus?” Jon asked, stepping forward.

Patrick shook his head. “No, it is not you.”

“Is it me, Jesus?” Spencer asked, a concerned edge to his question.

Patrick shook his head again. “No, it is not you.”

Brendon fell out of the shopping cart, and tumbled to the floor. “Is it me, Jesus?” he asked while laying down.

“No, it is not you,” Patrick said worriedly.

Pete took a hesitant step forward. “Is it me, Jesus?”

“Is it me, Jesus,” Patrick said mockingly. “Yes, of f-of course it’s you. Jeez Pete, where were you when everyone was looking for Ryan?”

Pete looked down at the floor. “Well, ya see—“

“You know what? I don’t want to hear it. I do not. Want. To hear it. Into the car, now.”

When most people met Patrick, they assumed three things about him. One, he was gayer than ten thousand rainbows marching in unison to Lady Gaga’s Born This Way. Two, he could never be mad at anybody. And three, he was incapable of saying a single swear word. Of course, two of these were dead wrong. Patrick was mad, quite often in fact. He just didn’t know how to express it, and the overwhelming love in his heart was usually enough to drown any angry feelings out. Patrick’s parents could attest to his extensive swear word vocabulary—sometimes, if they got extraordinarily drunk, they would tell of a younger, rebellious Patrick. This Patrick took home three men a week, and washed junky dinners down with alcohol and fizzy drinks. This Patrick would cuss out anyone who would listen, and was someone to be feared.

Pete had met that younger Patrick, years ago at a bowling rink. It was not a pretty story—more of a horribly ugly one, the kind of tale that is only saved by its ending. It was a colorful story too, making it a favorite at parties. It involved an optimistic Pete, a drunk-out-of-his-mind Patrick, two shattered bear bottles, multiple gutter balls, and perfect timing. It started with Pete asking if Patrick needed any help. And it ended with a wedding.

Pete liked to tell himself that story in times like these, when he was sitting next to a silently fuming Patrick, in a car that had once been his father’s. Pete knew he and Patrick had gone through too much to end it over something so small as this. Still, the silence dragged on, cruel and seemingly endless. Patrick knew how to freeze Pete out, to ignore his every word and show him exactly how hurtful he’d been. It was a special talent of his. Pete closed his eyes, and thought of bowling.

They were home quicker that he’d have liked.

Spencer and Brendon raced up the stairs, tripping over themselves in their rush. Ryan, in true Ryan fashion, began wandering aimlessly around the house. Jon spent a while staring into space, and then began making a pie in the kitchen.

Pete and Patrick sat down on opposite sides of the couch. Pete spent the momentary silence crossing and uncrossing his arms, while Patrick just looked at the ground. They had gotten wall-to-wall carpeting a few months ago, and neither of them had quite adjusted to the floor.

Surprisingly, Patrick was the first to speak. “I-I’m sorry. I don’t know why I keep blowing up like this. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“No, you’re right.” Pete nodded. “I should’ve helped look for Ryan. Hell, where even was he?”

“We…still don’t know. He’s not talking.”

Pete snorted. “Of course he’s not. There’s anything wrong with being silent, I know. I just miss the kid’s voice.”

“He—he’ll open up when he’s ready.”

Pete scooted a little bit towards Patrick. “Yes, he will. Cause you are his super awesome dad, and I am the guy that supports the super awesome dad, and loves him unconditionally.”

“You’re cheesy,” Patrick said. But he smiled as he said it.

Pete moved just a bit closer, and put his hand on Patrick’s shoulder. The joking edge fell from his voice. “I mean it, Patrick. I love you. Every day I love you in the cheesiest of ways. When we’re not together, I miss you in the sappiest of ways. Whenever I think I’m stupid, I just remind myself that at least I was smart enough to fall in love with you. At least I was smart enough to propose, even when I knew I would die on the spot if you said no. I love you. And I need you like I need my blood.”

Patrick sniffed. “That’s—that’s very nice. That’s a nice thing to say, Pete. I love you too.”

“Fuck yeah you do!” Pete grinned, and hugged his husband. “Super-hot old people make-up sex?”

Patrick laughed, and hoisted Pete up by his arm. “Super-hot old people make-up sex.”


	2. Brendon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has some poorly written smut in it, as well as my favorite character in the world, Drunk Dallon. Read at your own risk.

Brendon was a complicated guy. He had multiple things he loved, and many, many things he hated. He was perfectly capable of understanding the rules, and just as capable of breaking them. He liked being one of the most popular guys at school, but also wouldn’t mind living in the woods for ten months with a single Mariah Carey album as his sole source of entertainment. He craved new—new clothes, new food, new experiences. It was a way to break up the monotony, and by extension, the safeness, of everyday life. But he was also terrified of being hurt.

It was for these reasons he was so torn about throwing a party when his dads were out of town. He was currently pacing around his room, his eyes on his feet and his feet only. It was 6 AM, but on a weekend, so it was okay.

“Dude,” a recently awoken Spencer said. He was standing in the doorway with a mug of hot chocolate.

Brendon sighed. “It’s just—something’s on my mind.”

“What?”

Brendon bit his lip. “Do you think turtles call themselves turtles? Cause I mean, they don’t speak English. No way they understand it—brains are too small. They don’t know when we say ‘turtles’, we mean them. So what do they call themselves? Hell, how do they even speak? You know, I don’t think I’ve ever heard a turtle make a single noise.”

Spencer set his mug gently down on the floor. “Okay, those are some great questions, but why now?”

Brendon lay down on the floor. “I wanna throw a party.”

“So?” Spencer shrugged. “Throw a party. I’ll help you clean up if—when that’s an issue. Fuck, I’ll do anything if you just go to sleep.”

“Really?” Brendon said, bolting up.

Spencer rolled his eyes. “You’re my brother, you fucking idiot. Of course I will.”

Brendon wiped his tired eyes. And the two set to work.

Dallon was a little late to school that day—not that anyone noticed, including his teachers, but he still counted it as a personal failing. Not that he kept a list or anything. A list is no use when the information is stored permanently in your brain.

There seemed to be a big commotion in the hallway, which is never a good sign, especially in high school. My day is ruined, Dallon thought to himself. He did his best to move past the crowd quickly, hearing only fragments of excitement.

“…Brendon’s hosting it this Sunday!”

“Well, I heard there’s gonna be…”

“…Isn’t he gay? I thought after the big…”

“…I’m—I’m so excited, honestly. Party of the year?”

“Party. Of. The. Motherfucking. Year.”

“Oh my god…”

“…Trish, he’s cheerleading captain, duh!”

“I literally cannot.”

Dallon managed to make it to his locker without spontaneously combusting, which he considered a victory. He had just settled his nerves when he felt a hand on his back.

“Hi, Matt,” Dallon said glumly.

Matt frowned. “Now, now, that’s no way to treat your best friend!”

My only friend, Dallon corrected in his head. “I said, hi, didn’t I? That’s pretty nice if you ask me.”

“Look Dal, you need to relax. Loosen up.”

“…No I don’t.”

Matt was growing impatient. “Okay, but you wouldn’t know that, you’re so anxious all the time. Dal, just cause anxious gets you on Honor Roll does not mean it’s good for you.”

“What are you asking me to do?” Dallon reluctantly turned to face his friend, and put his hands in his pockets.

“I. Got. An invitation.” Matt held up a neon pink slip of paper. “Brendon Urie’s party. And you’re my plus one.”

Dallon sighed, and closed his eyes. It would be over quickly. Maybe he could slip out the back. One sip. One drink. Then go. “Fine.”

“Woohoo!” Matt cheered, and kicked the air. “Mormon boy’s getting drunk y’all! Ya hear that? Mormon boy’s getting motherfucking wasted!”

Brendon had underestimated the amount of planning that was needed for a party. He realized that the second Spencer had asked about food. How was he supposed to feed all of these people? With what? Those two questions alone were a lot to handle. And then, marking areas people could or could not be in. No way anyone was allowed in his dads’ bedroom. No way. There were no locks on any door except the front, so Brendon realized he would have to be creative. Hell, he’d have to be creative about all of it. 

But that’s what Brendon was good at. He was an oddball in the best sense of the word. He went to party supply stores to flirt with the cashiers for discounts, and brought home buckets of streamers and balloons. He dusted off old red solo cups, and helped Spencer carry armfuls of cheez doodles and pretzels. He had his full heart in this party. And Spencer was just happy his brother wasn’t pacing, wide awake, at 6 AM.

When the big day rolled around, Brendon was nervous beyond belief. But he also felt ready. And as the music began to play, snacks were set up, and people arrived, he felt euphoric.

“Spencer, it’s really happening!” He whispered excitedly.

“Yeah it is." Spencer yawned. “I’m out. Be a good host, ok?”

Brendon nodded. “Right. Right, of course!”

Early on in the planning, Brendon had decided there were three major rules of being a party host. Rule Number One: don’t stop moving. Don’t stay in one place for long unless you have an important reason to. Keep moving, and remain cheerful. Hang out by the snacks for a bit, make sure the food isn’t running low. Migrate to the dance floor and dance for a few songs. Check in with the family members that didn’t know you were hosting a party tonight. Then chill with the stoner kids for a minute. 

It was going to be one big merry go round of a night, Brendon thought. He pinched his cheeks and reminded himself that this is what he wanted. A party. A good party. A fun party. For fun. Yay.

Rule Number Two: do not get more drunk than your guests. Brendon told himself this as he took a sip of beer. If the host gets the most drunk, they lose control of the party. Chaos reigns. There is no one to hold back fights or check in with people. The host could say stupid things, and ruin everything they hold dear. It was okay to take a few sips, and gain that empty courage. But he would not be black-out drunk. Not tonight, anyway.

The party was in full swing about thirty minutes in—one of the stoner kids was ‘flying’ while his friend held him down, three girls had gotten movie style make-overs, and Ryan was sitting alone in a corner, rocking back and forth. In the fetal position. Classic Ryan.

The front door opened, and Brendon turned to greet the guests with a Colgate smile on his face.

Dallon was regretting every life choice he’d ever made. Every. Single. One. If I reversed them all, he wondered—hopefully not aloud—what kind of person would I be? Better? Worse? He downed a fifth beer and looked at the surging crowd of people. I would be more like them, he decided. I would probably not be better. But maybe I’d at least have some friends.

It was common knowledge, to Dallon and anyone who had ever known him, that Dallon’s alcohol tolerance was ridiculously low. This was a combination of bad genetics and having been raised in a drink-and-god-will-kill-you household. Dallon had gotten drunk only a couple of times before—the common factor was always Matt. Dallon poured himself another drink. Fucking Matt. Dragging him here. Well, he’d show him. 

His legs were feeling a little wobbly. Not a good sign. Nope. Not a good sign at all. Maybe a few more drinks would help…

Brendon was busy walking around, obeying Rule Number Three, when he first saw Dallon. (Rule Number Three: no man left behind. Talk to everyone, no matter what.) He had just finished a quick chit chat with the goths, when he looked over at the drink table. A single boy was standing by it. Brown hair, blue eyes. There was no tunnel vision, or blurring of everyone else in the room. Brendon didn’t suddenly hear romantic music, and he certainly didn’t start seeing everything in splendid color.

What Brendon did feel was the faintest of pangs. Like someone had taken the smallest of needles and struck his heart, then quickly closed the wound. It reminded Brendon of what he’d heard about phantom pain—amputees feeling pain for limbs that were long gone, because their brains didn’t register the loss. Phantom pain, a website had said, was the brain refusing to process a lack of something.

Of course, this was what Brendon would think looking back. In the present moment, all Brendon could do was shakily walk over to Dallon, and grab his hand. “I’m Brendon,” he blurted out.

“Dallon.”

“Y-you’re hot.” 

A very drunk Dallon smirked. “Yeah?”

Brendon moved in closer. “Yeah.” 

Sober Dallon was a closet case, one who apologized for breathing too loud and got perfect grades. Drunk Dallon was a horny cluster of nerves that took no prisoners. Brendon had never met sober Dallon—all he knew was this boy towering before him. Tall, his brain had decided, and gorgeous.

Brendon felt his back slam against the wall. “Oh, fuck.”

It all happened so quickly—one second he was the flirty party host, and the next Dallon’s tongue was inside his mouth. His hips against his. They were in the living room—anyone could see them. But no one gave a shit, not now anyway. No one paid attention to the two boys grinding against each other in the corner. 

Dallon put his fingers in the shorter boy’s hair, pulled, and moans just tumbled out of Brendon’s mouth. 

He was starting to question how good this felt when Dallon began nibbling at his neck—not enough to break skin, but enough to make little bruises and scrapes. Purple and brown marks on his body.  
Brendon gripped Dallon’s shoulders—a weak attempt to get his balance back. He felt dizzy, and his whole body was aching. “God—“ 

Then Dallon’s voice was in his ear, whispering harshly, making him melt. “Stop teasing or I fuck you dry, you little slut.”

And with that, Brendon let go. He stopped worrying about the too-yellow ceiling lights or his family and friends downstairs. They weren’t as important as Dallon’s warm body pressed against his. Sure, he had people he should talk to, and quite a bit of drink in his system. Sure, those were things a good party host would attend to.

“How badly do you want this?”

“Mmph!”

“Too desperate for words, huh?”

But none of those other people could carry him to his bedroom bridal-style, and then rudely toss him onto the mattress. None of those people could make him scream into a pillow, grip the bedsheets with all his meager strength, or whisper obscene things in his ear as they destroyed his hips. None of those people would tie him up and then watch as he dissolved into pieces. 

To put it simply, no one else was Dallon; and Brendon couldn’t get enough of Dallon. 

Brendon’s party did have its victims, of course. Every party sucks the life out of at least a few unlucky people, and this party was no different. The main victim was, unsurprisingly, George Ryan Ross Wentz. Brendon and Ryan were close—of course they were, being brothers—but they did not understand each other. Brendon didn’t know why Ryan couldn’t enjoy parties and social interaction. Ryan didn’t know why Brendon could stand talking to more than one person at a time. In his party-throwing and being-fucked haze, Brendon had forgotten to warn Ryan about the party. And now Ryan was stuck in a hell of his own making.

At least he had Jon to talk to. “Jon—“ Ryan began.

“Yes?” 

“I-I don’t know, don’t know what to do. Everything is so loud. I feel bad. This is bad.” Ryan scratched the back of his neck, and slumped in his seat. He was in his room, but the noise of the party had infected the entire house. Damaged it.

Jon exhaled. “Ryan, my dude, I don’t know what to tell you. It’ll get better soon…like, it’s not as bad as earlier.”

Ryan’s eyes narrowed. “I want Brendon to pay for what he did.”

“Harder, harder please—“ Brendon felt Dallon’s hand dance around his neck, and fuck that was hot.

“Shit, you’re tight.” 

Brendon’s breath caught in his throat. It was taking his every last bit of willpower not to touch himself. But Dallon said no touching. “It—oh—feels so—“ 

Dallon let out a dark little laugh, and thrust into him again. “Good?”

“Fuck yes!” 

Jon shook his head. “Ryan, there’s no way he doesn’t feel bad about it. He’s probably worried sick about you right now. You know, I bet the only thing stopping him from apologizing is that you’ve locked yourself away.”

“I-I guess.” Ryan crumpled into a little ball on the floor. “I just don’t like this. I hate everything now. I hate it.”

“Hey.” Jon walked over to his brother, and sat down next to him. He put his arms around Ryan, and held him close even as Ryan covered his face. “You don’t have to suffer alone. I’m right here. I'm a little high—okay I’m very high—but I'm here for you.”

Ryan smiled. “Thank you.” 

“No problem.”

Ryan cleared his throat. “You really think Brendon’s worrying about me?”

Jon shrugged. “How could he not?”

“Ah—“ Brendon threw his head back, wincing when it banged against the headboard. “I'm so close, Dal, I'm so fucking close—“

“You wanna touch yourself so bad, don't you?” Dallon was pounding into him relentlessly, and it felt so good Brendon thought he might cry.

“Yes, yes please, please let me!”

Dallon pretended to think about it. “Hmm. No. You're gonna come untouched, like the little whore you are.” He dug his fingers into Brendon's hips. 

“Oh my God!” 

“You're mad at me, aren't you?” He didn't know how Dallon could keep such composure, not while buried deep inside him. 

“Yes!”

Dallon leaned over to bite Brendon’s ear, earning a low moan. Brendon was still pinned to the bed—and hell, he didn't know how he'd be able to get up after this. Then Dallon was doing that fucking whisper again, and it was driving him insane. “So bratty. Does such a bratty slut deserve to cum?”

“Oh Dallon, no no no, I'm so sorry, I'll be good, I'm so sorry, please let me cum, please!”

Dallon grinned, and wrapped his fingers around Brendon’s cock. It was the lightest of touches, no friction at all, but Brendon's eyes still rolled back in his head. “You wait until after me,” Dallon instructed. “Or I’ll fuck you until you’re hard again.”

Brendon nodded desperately. He felt like he was about to explode. Dallon had destroyed him so effortlessly, and now all he could focus on was the sadistic boy above him. No person should be allowed to look this hot, Brendon decided. No one. “God, anything, just please—“

“Sometimes I just wonder, you know, what's going on in his head,” Ryan said absentmindedly.

“Well you can never really know,” Jon said. “Just assume. Make good assumptions.”

Ryan frowned. “Don't like that. Want to know people. What they're doing. What's going on. I feel so alone, all the time. ”

Jon sighed, and leaned back in his seat. “Maybe some things we are not meant to know.”

Ryan fell asleep on a rug that night, and Jon fell asleep in an armchair. They both woke up feeling a little off, the way one does when you don't get a good night of sleep. 

For the first time in his life, Brendon woke up early. Earlier than everyone else, at least. He could still see a bit of the night, lingering past its allotted time. He reached out his arms to yawn—and touched flesh. Brendon yelped and pulled back. He cautiously turned his head toward the body next to him.

His brain took in little bits of information at a time—brown hair. Messy. Bare back. Not facing. Him. Closed eyes. Boy was sleeping. Naked. Boy. Naked. Sleeping. Next. To him. Naked. Brendon suddenly remembered the previous night in gorgeous, technicolor detail.

He slapped his forehead. “No!”

Can't wake the guy up. Can't wake the guy up. Gotta get to Spencer. Talk. About everything. Brendon tossed on a pair of boxers and a sweatshirt, willfully ignoring the marks. Everywhere. Holy fuck this guy was good. Dallon. Dallon was his name. Oh god, why now?

It didn't take too long to find Spencer—just a bit of running back and forth, bumping into walls, and yelling. Brendon eventually found him in the kitchen, drinking a cup of coffee.

“Spence!” Brendon fell to the ground, wailing.

Spencer put a spoonful of sugar in his cup, and began to stir. “Yes?”

“I slept with a guy and now he's still here!” Brendon whined.

“Do you know his name?” Spencer hummed to himself. 

“Yes. I want him to go away now. Spence, can you make him go away?” Brendon touched his temples. “Fuck, I have a hangover.”

“No shit.”

“Spencer!” Brendon said angrily.

“Look—“ Spencer kneeled down, so he was at least a little closer to Brendon's eye level. “It's an asshole move to let someone wake up alone. Whether you like them or not. At least leave him a note. And some Advil. You don't want him to find out he slept with you through someone else—now that’s low.”

Brendon nodded, admittedly still sulking. Brendon would've done that, though. He really would have. And if he had, maybe things would’ve turned out differently. Maybe Brendon and Dallon’s respective lives would've veered off in opposite directions, never to meet again. But Brendon didn't do that. Because the second he got back to his room, the tall boy was gone.

Dallon. Dallon was his name.

So instead, Brendon had to track Dallon down at school—not that hard of a boy to find, but still. He had to search for him in the middle of lunch, abandoning his table full of popular kids. He had to meet him in an empty hallway. And he had to look him in the eyes, too. That was the hardest part.

Dallon didn't look that happy to see him either. “Are you that guy I slept with from the party?” he asked hesitantly. 

Brendon was confused about Dallon’s sudden shyness, but he figured they would talk about that later. He whispered a reluctant “Um, yeah”.

Dallon looked more anxious than shocked. “What—“

“I'm not gay,” Brendon said, rather bluntly. “I like girls. And I'm not—any of the other things. Either. I'm straight. I mess around, but I'm still straight.”

“O-okay.”

Brendon licked his lips. “That being said, um, I would be up for a round two. If that was something. You would like. Also.”

Dallon tilted his head, and smirked. The pale ghost of his previous cockiness beginning to shine through. “Yeah?”

Brendon moved in closer. “Yeah.”

Their first sober kiss was in that lonely hallway. And it wasn’t their last kiss either, not by a long shot.


	3. Jon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon motherfucking Walker, everyone. On Jon he's the best.

When Jon got into high school, he only had one goal in mind—find someone to sit with at lunch. Just one person. Then everything else would be fine. He couldn’t sit with Ryan—not when Ryan had been homeschooled for almost a year now. And he didn’t want to sit with Brendon, not when Brendon’s table was chock-full of cheerleaders and jocks. That left Spencer, and possible unlocked characters—friends. Jon had realized long ago he was no good at friends.

So, he alternated. Chatting with Spencer and his friends for a half an hour some days, hanging out with the loners in the library on others. On the occasion in which neither was a possibility, he got high in the bathroom, and blasted Nirvana on his headphones. This is how Jon spent lunch all freshman year. He got okay grades—certainly not as good as Spencer, but B’s and C’s. He passed his classes easily enough, and teachers liked him because in class he rarely made a sound.

Jon walked into his sophomore year a little wiser, and a little less ready to take on the world. He’d given up on having super close friends—a few people he could talk to was enough. Besides, everyone knows high school friends don’t last forever anyway. 

It was fitting that this was the day he met Tyler and Josh. 

Everything started right after third period—that precious time just before lunch. Jon was steeling himself for the eventual empty feeling, leaning against his locker, when a shorter boy with bright yellow hair crashed into him. 

“Ow!” Jon said, and rubbed his shoulder.

The boy looked up at him with perfect puppy eyes. “I’m out!”

Jon was confused, more than usual. “What?”

“I’m out!” the boy repeated, seemingly devastated. 

“What?” Jon asked again.

Then another, taller, boy emerged from the shadows. He had fluffy brown hair, and looked like he hadn’t slept a day in his life. “He’s out of weed,” the second boy said helpfully. “He wants yours. I’m Tyler, by the way.”

“I don’t have weed,” Jon lied.

Tyler raised his eyebrows. “Really.”

“Y-yes."

“So,” Tyler took a step closer. “If I were to look in your locker right now, I wouldn’t find any weed. None at all. Just schoolbooks and shit.”

Jon took a moment to think about this. “…No.”

The first boy frowned, and crossed his arms. “Can you just give us your weed, you meanie?”

Jon placed his palm on his chest. “Ouch. That hurt, you know?”

Tyler sighed, and put a hand on the shorter boy’s shoulder. “I’m sorry. Let me start over. This is Josh, he’s my…friend. We’re new here, we’re out of weed, and we would like to get to know you a little better. We know you have weed because you were high as fuck in Physics today. We’ll return the favor, I promise.”

And Jon wasn’t the type to turn down such a generous offer. He, Tyler, and Josh snuck into some dusty old classroom easily enough, and Jon was more than happy to sit next to them, their backs against the tiled walls. After his first inhale, Josh put his head on Tyler’s shoulder, and a sort of dreamy smile crossed his face.

“Hmm, our bones are wet, you know,” Josh said softly.

Tyler passed the blunt back to Jon. “Oh, god, not again.”

Jon rubbed his eyes. “What again?”

“Sometimes when he gets high he starts talking nonsense, and won’t stop for hours. He’s a baby, honestly,” Tyler said.

“I mean, how is that nonsense?” Jon asked. “Our bones are wet. They are. If you really think about it.”

Josh squealed, and got up to quickly hug Jon. “You’re my best friend in the whole world, you know that? I would die for you. I wanna make us friendship bracelets. They’ll be dyed black though, so we can be best friends but still badass. I like cake. Do you like cake?”

Tyler looked offended. “I thought I was your best friend.”

“You were my best friend until that night we got drunk and fucked,” Josh said, and then fell into Tyler’s lap, seemingly asleep. 

“He’s lying,” Tyler said, and began stroking Josh’s hair. “Hey, can I have another hit?”

“Oh, sure.” Jon reached into his backpack again, pushing aside the mess of books and pencils. He always kept a little extra in there, enough to get through the day. The color of his backpack was a terrible burnt yellow, but at least the fabric was cheap, and easy to find on E-bay. With Jon’s passable sewing skills (thank you Home Ec.) he’d managed to construct a false bottom—one not even the most prying eyes could catch. 

Frantically groping around inside the secret compartment—he must be running low, dammit—Jon’s hand circled around something unfamiliar. He pulled the thing out of the bag, and in the light it revealed itself as a tube of valium. “Hm,” Jon said, more to himself than anyone else. “I’ve always wanted to try this.”

Tyler turned to him with a smile. “No time like the present.”

Dallon was still rolling his eyes, even in the dark where Brendon couldn’t possibly see him. “I’m not fucking you in school, Brendon. We could get in trouble.”

“But we wouldn’t!” Brendon whined, pawing at Dallon’s chest. “We’re like. In a stupid janitor’s closet. No one would catch us, I swear. Please? Pretty please with cherry on top?”

Dallon took Brendon’s hands in his, and looked deep into the smaller boy’s wide brown eyes. “No.”

Brendon huffed. “You’re no fun.”

“I am so fun.”

“Oh, right, I forgot. You’re fun when I get a few drinks in you.”

Dallon’s face fell. Brendon could barely stammer out an apology before he was gone, leaving Brendon alone in the smelly closet. “Dallon—“

Jon put his hands on his heads and stared at the sink. It was a beautiful sink. The most beautiful sink in the world. It was a pity he had never looked at this sink more—not while he’d been alive. Well, he wasn’t dead now. But he ought to be close, what with how the room was spinning.

Tyler pressed a kiss to Josh’s forehead, and looked over at Jon, concerned. “Dude are you okay? I don’t feel anything yet.”

“Oh, you will,” Jon said blankly. He was staring at the window now. It was a beautiful window. The most beautiful window in the world. “You will. Soon.”

“How’s it going?”

Jon looked down at his feet. Ugly, ugly feet. Even though the shoes. It was a pity he had to dissolve like this—while the world was perfect, and he ever so imperfect. He wanted to cry, but was afraid of crying alligators, so he decided not to. “I worry about Ryan a lot,” Jon finally said. “He’s my brother.”

“He the youngest?” Tyler asked. 

“Yeah. Well. Second-youngest. Still, he’s the baby.” Tyler nodded. “Everyone always worries about the baby. No matter what. He go here?” 

Jon bit his nails. “Nope. Homeschooled. Over a year. Less than a year. You know.”

“I don’t. What happened?”

Jon lay down on his back. “You should be floating right now. Why aren’t you floating right now?”

“High tolerance, I guess. Develops with time. What happened with your brother?”

The ceiling was a whirlpool. Very bad. Jon wanted to tell the ceiling to be something else, but he figured it wouldn’t listen. “His hand got cut. With a beaker. From science, you know? The kind you put water and pills in. He said it was an accident, and that no one else was there with him. But the doctors said the cut was too deep to not be intentional.”

Tyler lay down next to him. “So someone else did it?”

“We don’t know. Then Ryan said he didn’t want to go to school any more. Patrick got him a bunch of tutors—you should’ve seen how excited he was when Patrick told him. Like it was Christmas.”

Josh woke up with a start, and hurriedly crawled over to the other two boys. “How long was I out?”

“Zero days, zero hours, and twenty minutes and thirty seconds,” Tyler answered.

Josh curled up next to Tyler. “Are you guys high?”

“High is a word,” Jon said. “A four letter word. In the English language.”

“Yes,” Tyler said. “Him more than me.”

“Oh.” And with that, Josh fell asleep again, his arms wrapped around Tyler’s stomach.

They’re dating, Jon thought. There’s no way they’re not dating.

Brendon chased Dallon through the school, not pausing for breath, even when he desperately needed it. “Dallon! Would you please listen to me, for just a second?”

Dallon was having none of it. “No. Go away.”

“Then I guess—I’ll just scream it all! In the cafeteria! Where everyone will hear! Would you like that Dallon? Would you?” Brendon grabbed Dallon’s arm, the same arm that had held him down less than six hours earlier, making sure he didn’t move. Making sure he couldn’t move a muscle as Dallon pounded into him. Brendon’s face warmed at the memory.

Dallon sighed, and pushed Brendon into an abandoned office. “What do you have to say?” He asked.

Brendon got down on his knees, and clasped his hands. “I am so sorry!” 

“That’s it?”

“I will never do a single bad thing ever again!”

“Theres-there’s no way that’s true,” Dallon said, staring down at Brendon with an unreadable expression.

“I will suck your dick so good you will forget your own name!”

Dallon laughed, and couldn’t help but smile at the desperate expression on Brendon’s face. The boy kneeling in front of him really was sorry, he could tell, and he didn’t have it in him to be mad any longer. “I-I mean. Okay.”

Brendon didn’t need to be told twice. 

Jon arrived home that day properly out of his mind. Colors were shifting. Squirrels were dancing. He wasn’t dancing, of course—he wasn’t a squirrel—but he felt like it. The sky was properly lovely, even without the rosy tint of valium in your mind, you could still appreciate it. Weather sometimes got unreasonably beautiful this time of year. Jon was never able to understand it. Why squander beauty on times like this, when people were miserable, and not times when people were happy? Jon pulled out his phone. Maybe the internet knew? He decided against it, and put the phone back in his pocket. The internet was stupid.

He strode into the house still in good spirits. He was greeted with a downcast Ryan, who was sitting alone at the kitchen counter. Everything seemed impossibly dull inside. There was only grey and brown here. No rainbows, no squirrels, and no dancing. Jon was tempted to go back outside, but his brother was crying, so he couldn’t.

He sat next to Ryan, and did his best to sit down quietly. He just looked at Ryan for a little bit—just looked at him. Ryan didn’t talk a lot. The person he talked most with was Jon, and a few select trees. Trees weren’t people, but Ryan talked to them like they were. Sometimes Jon would watch him talk to the trees, just sitting there in the bushes. Being quiet. Ryan had a favorite, of course—a majestic redwood, just outside of school grounds. 

“Is everything okay?” Jon asked.

Ryan sobbed. “I don’t want to go to therapy.”

Jon knew Ryan hated therapy. Pete and Patrick knew Ryan hated therapy. Everyone knew Ryan hated therapy. But everyone also held onto hope that Ryan would some day love therapy, and he’d get better. Everyone wanted Ryan to get better, with every ounce of their being. 

Jon had rehearsed his words in his head a million times. I’m here for you. Please, I would never hurt you. You’re my brother, and I love you. I want you to stay alive. I’m so sorry that happened. Please let me help. Tell me what you need. I want you to be happy. I don’t want to see you in pain. He’d said all of it, time and time again. He hoped a bit of it got in Ryan’s head. Even just a shred would be nice.

Before Jon could open his mouth, Spencer burst into the room, a piece of homework paper in his hands. “Oh god, they’re going to start up again!”

Ryan looked up. “They’re what?”

He was cut off by the sound of moaning from upstairs. “Fuck that feels so good, you’re so fucking good!” It was Brendon. Of course. Ryan gingerly placed his hands over his ears. 

Spencer’s eyes had a hollow look to them. “They’ve been at it for hours.”

“Hours?” A very worried Jon asked. “They?”

“Some guy, I think his name starts with a D. Say goodbye to getting a full night of sleep boys,” Spencer said. He then started to make himself a cup of coffee. 

“Sound-proofing.” Ryan’s voice sounded small. “We need to soundproof this house.”

It was then Brendon let out a weirdly animal-like scream, “Right there! Right fucking there!”

“You’re a genius, Ryan,” Spencer said. “Hey Jon, how was your day?”

“Good! I actually, um, made some friends.”

The coffee was blacker than black, but Spencer still downed it. “Oh?”

“Their names are Tyler and Josh. They’re definitely dating, but lying about it for whatever reason. Tyler’s super serious and shit, and Josh likes cake.”

“You’re high right now, aren’t you?” Ryan asked quietly.

And Jon’s surprised face was just so big, and his eyes were so huge, Ryan couldn’t help but burst into laughter at the sight of it. Spencer didn’t understand what was so funny, but as the old platitude says, laughter is contagious, so soon he was joining in. Then Jon couldn’t help but fall to the ground, chest heaving. The biggest smile on his sweaty face. We’re ridiculous, he thought to himself. 

Fucking ridiculous.


	4. Dallon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I just. I am very small okay. And I cry when I should not. Happy New Year.

“I want you to hit me.”

Crossroads are not something to be taken lightly. They’re all-encompassing moments in your life, in which you decide exactly what kind of person you are. They’re more plentiful when you’re young, of course—you decide so much about yourself when you’re young. You should have someone by your side when you make these decisions. Another hopeless soul, stranded next to you at the crossroads. This person does not guide your life, but they hold your hand as you scan the road ahead. They hold you close and tell you to not be so scared of the impending tornado.

If you don’t have a person, well then there’s no romanticism to the winding road—you’re stranded, plain and simple. You’re lost, and left to fend for yourself. You have only what you bring with you. What you were born with. It’s not a lot, but it is enough to make a terrible decision.

When Brendon Urie dragged Dallon Weekes, a boy he had just met but slept with too many times to count, home, he most likely didn’t think he was at the verge of a crossroads. He was a horny teen who wanted to be fucked. He was also a horny teen that knew his kinks—thank you, internet—and had discovered a while ago how much he enjoyed pain. He didn’t think anything of taking Dallon to bed, stripping down to his underwear, and demanding he be abused. 

“I want you to hit me.”

Dallon did think something of it though. He crawled over to the opposite end of the bed, and grabbed his undershirt from where it was lying on the floor. “No."

Brendon turned around, a worried look on his face. He was so lovely, Dallon lazily observed. Not a bit of him seemed wrong, or out of place. It would be nice to have a body like that. To have a life like that. Dallon knew he’d never be cheer captain, insanely popular, or have complete confidence in his body. Still, it was nice to fantasize. To step into another person’s life, just for a moment.

“W-what? Why not?” Brendon was still reeling. 

This was where the crossroads settled into the dirt. Dallon never had a single guiding figure in his life. Merely a series of confusing revelations about what it meant to be human, along with a few healthy dollops of depression. So it was with his own cracked reasoning he replied, “It’s none of your business.”

Brendon scooted over to where Dallon was sitting. And with an almost trance-like movement of his wrist, he examined a small patch of skin just above Dallon’s elbow. It was nothing a stranger would notice. But Brendon knew Dallon’s body--he already knew it so well. “Dal, this is a bruise,” Brendon said, his voice much too quiet. 

“I’m clumsy.” He wasn’t clumsy.

Brendon looked up at Dallon’s stony expression, and pushed aside a big swath of hair on his forehead. Behind it lay another purple-red spot. A horrifying little splotch of broken skin. “W-who did this?”

Dallon hastily removed Brendon’s hand from his scalp. “Like I said, Brendon, I’m clumsy, I fall and hurt myself and—“

“Bullshit.”

The crossroad was beginning to look worse and worse now. Dallon looked at both of the paths, desperately racking his head for a solution. He was leaning towards a path of hushed whispers and concealer, of being an excellent liar and better son—and then Brendon looked into his eyes. The soft edge to them. The way they wouldn’t waver, wouldn’t stop looking at him. Gorgeous. All of it terribly, unreasonably gorgeous. And he couldn’t keep his mouth closed. 

“My dad. It’s my dad, okay? He hits me. A lot. And I’ve given up on trying to stop it, because I know he won’t, not until I’ve moved out anyway. Just—can you please kiss me now? I don’t want to talk about it anymore, it’s not—“

“Baby, I’m so sorry.” Brendon put a hand on Dallon’s knee. “That’s why you don’t want to hit me, isn’t it?”

Oh god. Dallon swallowed. “It’s fine, it’s fine, it’s not like there’s anything you could do about it. Please don’t waste your time worrying about me.”

“Dallon.” Brendon lay the lightest of fingers under Dallon’s chin, making the boy look at him. And Dallon was melted once again, staring into those godforsaken eyes. Oh you, he thought. “I couldn’t stop caring about you if I tried.”

“I-“

Brendon smiled, and hugged Dallon’s shaking body. “You’re my friend. You don’t have to hide a single thing from me. It’s cheesy, but I’m here for you. Okay?”

“Y-you just want me for sex.” 

“I want you for you.”

It sounded much too tender for Dallon’s liking, these words that were coming from someone who wouldn’t ever love him. So he gripped the back of Brendon’s neck, and pressed their lips together. It was a sloppy kiss, perhaps the sloppiest kiss known to man. But it meant Dallon wouldn’t have to talk anymore. 

Then Brendon was groaning, and pulling Dallon down onto the bed. He couldn’t help but fall into the kiss, and soon began rutting against Dallon’s thigh. “So—“ he said between kisses, “no—hitting—but, could you—tie me up?”

Dallon pressed a kiss to Brendon’s forehead. “Sure.”

“I, um, brought some ties,” Brendon said, and gestured to a nearby box.

“Now that’s naughty.” Dallon licked at Brendon’s neck, his tongue running over marks he’d left there earlier. They were both down under now. No talking about things they didn’t want to. No saying things they didn’t want to say. “Hmm—I think I want to blindfold you too. Cover those sinful eyes. Would you like that? Being all tied up and blindfolded for me? Completely under my control?”

“Ah, god, please—“

Pete was downstairs, eating peanut butter from the can, when he heard the big crash. It caused him to drop his Special Peanut Butter Spoon, as well as the open can. “Patrick?” he called out. His tone equally in despair and shock. 

Patrick, who had been sleeping, heard his husband’s cry from the bedroom. This is probably another prank, Patrick reasoned. But I should humor him anyway. “Yes dear?”

“Patrick, I heard a crash! It was fucking loud and it made me drop my peanut butter!”

At this, Patrick hurried into the kitchen “Pete, please tell me you weren’t eating peanut butter straight from the can again.”

Pete smirked. “Honey, nothing I do is straight.” His grin widened at the exasperated look in Patrick's eyes.

“You--you know it was bad enough when you used that pun in your vows,” Patrick said, and ran his fingers through his hair. He could swear he was balding already, and it wasn’t just because of the kids. “I bet a book fell, Pete. Something like that.”

The peanut butter can just lay there, spilling onto the floor. “I guess.”

What both men were unaware of was the truly miraculous origin of the sound. It’s not a very common sound—in fact most people could go their entire lives without hearing it. A fragile, priceless porcelain lamp on its own is a rare enough object. The noise it makes when falling to the ground, thus breaking into a million pieces? Once in a lifetime.

“Ahh!” Ryan screeched, and put his hands over his eyes. “What—how—“

“I think it’s pretty obvious ‘how’,” Brendon said, so nonchalantly you would hardly believe there was a dick up his ass. “To be honest I’m more curious about whatever that poor lamp ever did to you.”

Dallon moved to pull out, but Brendon held him down with surprising strength. “I—“ Dallon sighed. “Wait, you guys are related?”

“I am walking away,” Ryan said, his eyes still tightly shut. “I do not want to see this, or something like this ever again. Good-bye.”

Brendon shook his head disapprovingly. “Not even gonna clean up the lamp?”

“No.” That was the last thing Ryan said before slamming the door shut, and perhaps running off to some far-flung corner of the house. Brendon remained unfazed. Dallon, while still hard, was panicking. Wait, were they brothers? Something along those lines? What just happened? What?

“Now,” Brendon let out a sigh and moved his hips, “where were we?”

It was here Dallon lost his train of thought. He had something to say—something important. But Brendon was moaning underneath him, begging to be fucked hard and fast. So he couldn’t really concentrate on much else.

He started thrusting into Brendon again, letting the room fill with the sound of slapping skin. Today was going to be one of those lazy Sundays, Dallon could feel it. Lots of talking about random shit and fucking and eating cinnamon rolls they reheated in the microwave. These were the kinds of days it almost felt like they were dating. Like they were more than people who barely knew a thing about the other, but couldn’t stop sneaking off together at the end of the day. Dallon loved days like these. Sometimes he felt like they could replace his veins.

Ryan did not, in fact, run off to a different corner of the house. He ran out of the house, and a couple blocks. Ryan wasn’t the healthiest kid in the word, and he hated P.E. for obvious reasons, but he could run pretty fast when he wanted to. It only took him a frantic fifteen minutes to escape the house, race down a few blocks, and finally arrive, sweating, at a nearby apple orchard. 

Once he had arrived, Ryan walked up to the nearest tree, a slim little sapling, and crouched by it. His hair was in his face. “Oh my god, Rachel,” Ryan began. “You’re not going to freaking believe this.”

The wind howled around him, masking his words to anyone standing even a few feet away. It was the worst kind of windy morning—cold enough to make you want to stay inside, but not cold enough to have a reason to.

It was hours later, when they were sitting on the kitchen counter eating corn dogs, that Brendon brought it up again. He did it indirectly, of course. He didn’t even look at Dallon when he said it— he just stared at his feet. “I never was in the foster system, you know. I tell people I don’t know that I was, ‘cause it’s a better story. But that’s not how things happened at all.”

“How did things happen?” Dallon asked.

Brendon took another bite of his corn dog. “My biological family, they just abandoned me. Said I was ‘too much’ for them. I mean I have ADHD, I don’t know what they expected, but—they, they didn’t want me. So they just left me somewhere. I think I was about seven. Patrick found me, and um, he took me home.”

“Oh my god.”

“Y-yeah,” Brendon said, a small smile on his face. “It sucks when your birth parents don’t deserve you, huh?”

Dallon nodded so quickly he almost didn’t realize Brendon was talking about him. When he did, he couldn’t help but fall apart right then and there. He lay down on the kitchen counter, staring up at Brendon’s glorious face. He let a half-eaten corn dog slip out of his hands, and fall to the floor. There was so much on his mind right then. Too much. 

“Can I take a picture of you?” Dallon surprised himself with how boldly he asked. “It’s just—you have some nice lighting on your face right now.”

“Oh. Sure.” Brendon moved just a bit, allowing Dallon to snap a few photos. Dallon wasn’t a professional photographer of any means—he only had his phone—but he liked playing with light and color. With arrangement and pattern. When he showed the picture to Brendon and said ‘perfect’, he of course wasn’t talking about the quality of the photo. 

In lieu of saying something important, Dallon asked another stilted question. “Are you and Ryan brothers? Like, he’s in the house. I mean. You two don’t really look a lot alike, I just—“

“Yeah he’s my brother,” Brendon said. “We’re all adopted, so none of us really look alike. My dad’s didn’t set out to adopt a lot of kids, but they ended up taking us all.”

“Wait, how many siblings do you have?”

“Three or four, depends if you count Brent,” Jon said as he walked into the kitchen. A single blunt was resting in his fingertips, and he seemed curiously preoccupied with the ceiling lights. “I don’t count Brent, but hey, I never met the dude. He did not seem very lit, not gonna lie. Like a fuckboy that doesn’t fuck. A…boy. You know?”

Dallon was beginning to wonder if this was all some bizarre fever dream. He had just hooked up with Brendon Urie, one of the, if not the most popular boy in school. He had just told Brendon Urie a secret he’d kept hidden for almost all of his life. And now he was hanging out in Brendon Urie’s kitchen, watching a very high guy who he’d never seen before unintentionally diss a mysterious ‘Brent’. It wasn’t so much to process that he was completely out of it, but it did throw him off in more ways than one. 

“Jon, we don’t talk about Brent, okay? He chose to leave us. He’s gone.” Brendon said it all in a rather flat voice, but Dallon could hear the emotion behind his words. There was a story there. A long, torturous one. 

Jon nodded. “I mean, that’s tots fair my dude. I press F on that one. Oh hey, you’re Dallon right?” Jon gestured towards the still imploding boy. “Man, you do not look like a top at all.”

Dallon’s head jerked up. “W-what?”

Spencer chose this moment as his time to emerge from the shadows. “I know, right?” he said. “Like he’s tall and all, but other than that, I would not peg this guy as the type to nail someone into a mattress.”

“Ha. Peg.”

“You know,” Brendon said sternly, “it’s really none of your concern—“

Jon couldn’t help but interrupt. “It is when you’re so fucking loud! Like, seriously my not-gay bros, you are so not chilling in a hot tub five feet apart. That’s not chill. I mean, poor Ryan, his bedroom is right next to you guys'. Bet that poor lil dude has to hear everything.”

“Hey, where is Ryan?” Spencer asked.

“Oh, shit. Did we fucking lose our boy again?” Jon looked back and forth, as if hoping for Ryan to suddenly materialize in front of his face.

“No you didn’t,” Ryan answered, his clothes dripping wet. “I’ve been standing here for twenty minutes and forty-five seconds.” Why he was so confident in this number, was something no one would ever truly understand.

Dallon hopped off the counter, and made his way towards the soaking Ryan. “Oh, um. Ryan, I just want to apologize for earlier.”

“It’s fine,” Ryan said, resigned. 

“Why are your clothes wet?” Spencer asked. Ryan didn’t answer. 

“Still though,” Dallon continued. “I violated the bro code, and that’s not cool. I’m sorry.” Ryan didn’t reply to Dallon either, but he looked somewhat appeased. 

Jon dropped his blunt, but did not seem to notice. “Wait, you two dudettes know each other? Rad.”

Ryan and Dallon had met at the beginning of the year. They were both in the same fifth period English class, and they both hated it. Fifth period is a terrible time of day for pretty much any class, but it’s especially awful when it’s English. Mx. Kartane wasn’t a bad teacher, but they were new to the school. They hadn’t earned their master’s yet, and still didn’t know how to quiet down an entire classroom. Students were restless, and ready to riot, no matter what Mx. Kartane did. It was hard to respect a teacher with a babyface and a stutter.

Of course, Dallon knew this. He took one look at Ryan and realized they had both come to the same conclusion—this class was going to be a battle. Not because of the teacher, but because the students were going to be literal hell. So they banded together, meeting for half-study group, half-group therapy sessions every Monday. They weren’t friends outside of school. But, by the end of the semester, they both had A’s in English. 

Dallon told some version of this story as Brendon rested his head on Dallon’s shoulder, and hugged him from behind. The display of affection didn’t go unnoticed by Spencer or Jon, but they knew better than to comment.  
And by the time Dallon was done explaining, Ryan had left the room. 

“Pete—oh dear god, Pete, please stop eating all that sugar, I am begging you.”

“You’re not the boss of me!” Pete screamed, promptly swallowing another handful of the stuff. He’d found a stash of sugar in one of the cabinets (hidden for obvious reasons), and had quickly decided to down it all. 

Patrick’s eyes darted back and forth. “Pete, please!”

“Oh you want me to stop eating the sugar? Do you? Well—“ Pete held up his middle finger. “Read. Between. The lines. Babe.”

This, Patrick could not stand. He rushed forward, pure adrenaline fueling this attack against the love of his life, and knocked the sugar bowl out of Pete’s hands. It fell to the floor with a final, resolute clunk. “Don’t call me babe,” Patrick said, as menacingly as he could.

Pete raised an eyebrow. “Hot.”

“So, where are your dads?” Dallon asked.

Brendon shrugged. “I dunno.”

“Probably fucking,” Spencer said in a monotone. 

The four of them—Spencer, Jon, Dallon, and Brendon—were all crammed onto the couch. There had been some vague plan to watch a movie, which quickly descended into unrelated chatter as Jon switched between channels. Dallon wasn’t in the most comfortable positions, wedged in at the end. But Brendon was practically in his lap, and he wasn’t at home. So really, this was heaven. The closest he would get, anyway.

“Oh, Dal, how’d you know you were gay?” Spencer asked, his eyes glued to the tv.

Dallon yawned. “I guess, I just knew I didn’t like girls. And then stuff started clicking, and yeah. No big moment or anything, just lots of little ones.”

“What about you Brendon,” Jon said, probably even higher than before. “How’d you know?”

Brendon shook his head. “Not gay.”

“Mm. If you take the cat out of the bitch, do you take the bitch out of the cat? Or no?” Jon evidently hadn’t heard a single word Brendon said. 

But Dallon had. He looked at the boy sitting so close to him, and he let his heart beat slightly faster. He let his pulse quicken and blood rush. He let his brain overload with chemicals he wished would disappear. He let his feelings explode inside his body. He told himself that it didn’t matter anymore. There were so few beautiful things in life. He should be happy to just be near one. 

He should be ashamed to want more. 

He should be so ashamed.

Spencer’s eyes lit up as Jon switched the channel once again. “Oh my god. No way.”

“What?” 

“Fifty fucking shades!” Brendon cheered, and clapped his hands together. “Dal, you haven’t seen this, have you?”

“Uh, no.”

Brendon cheered again. “Oh my fucking god, you are in for such a treat.”

“Wait—“ Spencer turned towards Dallon. “Don’t you like, have a curfew or something? It’s pretty fucking late, will, like. your parents be worried?”

Dallon bit the inside of his cheek.

“He can stay the night!” Brendon butted in. “You can stay the night, can’t you? Please stay the night.”

Dallon couldn’t say no. Not to that. Not to Brendon. “Uh, yeah.”

“Yay!”

A lot of people think you need a family member to help you through your crossroads. They’ll go on and on about hating their moms or dads when they were young, but learning the lesson of loving your parents soon enough. They’ll say stuff like “but he’s your dad”, and “I know, that’s awful, but she’s your mom.” These people can be right. They just aren’t right all the time. Mere blood does not always connect people the way it should.

The person you turn to at the crossroads has to be a person who’s in for the long haul. A person who, if you make the wrong choice, will still shoulder the burden. They let you know you’re not alone. They let you know they’re here for you, even in the rough bits. If you fuck up—if you end up shit-faced and thin as a rail, or stuck in a cold, snowy place no sound mind would dream of going, then they’ll still come for you. 

They’ll find you. They’ll hold you, and comfort you, in whatever form is best. Maybe they’ll make you hot chocolate, or turn on some bad tv. It could be as simple as a hug, or as complex as a revenge prank involving twenty or so people. They’ll do it because when they stood with you at that crossroads, they signed up for everything. Not just the good parts.  
When you’re ready, they’ll take you home. Wherever that is.


	5. Ryan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted this chapter to not be cheesy. But it still kinda is. However, there's our queen, Z Berg. So.

Trees can’t talk back. That was the first thought that went through Brendon’s head one foggy September morning. It was the third day of high school, he was desperate to make a good impression, and he was stuck just outside the school grounds. Staring at his brother. Who was talking to a tree. A raw undercurrent of annoyance had poisoned all his thoughts, as well as a tinge of just plain boredom. Ryan Duty wasn’t a phrase anyone in the family would actually use, but it existed nonetheless. Someone had to tear Ryan away from the big redwood just outside of school. Someone had to make sure he at least got to his first class. And more often than not, that someone was Brendon.

“Hey uh, Ryan?” Brendon spoke, despite knowing it would be of no use. Ryan was staring up at the tree, transfixed. He wasn’t moving anytime soon.

Brendon sighed, and kicked at the leaves near his feet.

Looking back Brendon remembered little of these torturous mornings. They were hazy memories at best. Dallon didn’t understand this. “How can you just forget something like that?” He asked, one dark night when they were up far too late. It had started as Brendon desperate to be fucked again, and ended as a simple exchange of body heat, something far too close to cuddling.

“I dunno,” Brendon mumbled, eyes half closed. “Dude just likes to talk to trees. It’s honestly kinda funny.”

Dallon narrowed his eyes. “Is it?”

“Sure it is,” Brendon said. “Tell you what’s hilarious though. Your reaction to fifty fucking shades.”

Dallon rolled over. “Shut up,” he said, in a voice much closer to a whisper. 

Brendon couldn’t help but laugh, and reach over to pull Dallon closer. It was dark but snatches of skin were still visible, as well as a ghost of a smile. “You are such a bottom when you’re not in bed, you know that?”

“Shut. Up.”

What Brendon didn’t know was that redwood was Ryan’s favorite tree. It was Ryan’s favorite tree because it was only a short run away from the basketball court. Ryan had P.E. on the basketball court, or at least he used to. School altogether had been quite awful, but P.E. was truly the worst of the lot. So, he skipped. He didn’t care about breaking rules as long as it made him feel a little better. He wasn’t hurting anyone. That’s what he meant to say to Patrick, when he confronted him about all the absences. He should’ve said that. Then maybe Patrick would understand. But the words stuck in his throat.

Even now, Ryan still visited the tree. It had become his morning routine: wake up, run out before anyone can see you, visit the tree, come home, have breakfast, pretend like you were never gone. 

It was a Monday that Z first saw him. 

One moment, Ryan was whispering his secrets into the bark, facing branches with open eyes. The next moment Z Berg was tapping gently, as gently as possible, on his shoulder. 

He couldn’t have reacted worse.

“Oh wow,” Z said, as softly as she could. “What the--”

Ryan could only let out a muffled “ow...” as his back hit the rocky ground. He had stumbled backward, screamed, hit a branch, and was now lying in a rather undignified position. This is bad, Ryan thought. I have dirt in my hair and this is bad.

Z still stood above him, and a cautious hand inched toward her mouth. “Oh my god, dude, are you okay?”

“Uh…” Ryan stared at the sky. “In general terms, no.”

She couldn’t help but roll her eyes. “Nice angst, but any broken bones?”

“...No.”

It was an insufferably perfect morning. Birds chirped as Z kneeled down to look Ryan in the eye. “Next question. What are you doing here?”

She didn’t expect this to be such a chore to answer, but for Ryan it was. He crawled over to the base of the tree, and slumped against it. Almost ready to fall asleep between the roots. “What are...you doing here?”

“My grandma owns this garden. I moved in with her a few weeks ago, and I’m watering the trees cause she’s too old. Private property, bitch.” Z tapped the watering can against her leg as if to prove it.

Ryan’s eyes widened. “Am I going to jail?”

Z held back a laugh. “No, honey you’re not going to jail. Still, I might get my grandma to yell at you if you don’t say why you’re here.”

This was a question Ryan had been asked many times. By family, by teachers, and by many, many therapists. He rarely gave an answer that was longer than a few syllables. He never gave one that caused the questions to stop. Still, Z was looking at him with a smirk on her face and kind eyes. Plus, he was trespassing. Maybe he owed her a little more than the usual shrug.

“It’s part of my morning,” Ryan said, his eyes on the ground. “I come here…and just talk. About stuff.”  
“To the tree.”

Ryan nodded. 

Z sat down. “Dude, I’m not judging you.”

Ryan said nothing.

“Hey.” Z reached over and nudged his shoulder. “If anyone’s crazy, it’s me. Like, trust me, I’ve got issues.”

There’s an odd pause, and she pulled back, just a bit. “Name’s Z Berg. You?”

“Ryan.”

“Well then Ryan, do you like pancakes?”

He nodded.

Once upon a time, Pete Wentz bought a chandelier. It was the week after he had adopted Spencer with Patrick, and he was feeling worried. Not just about adopting another kid. Not just about the new record. Not just about how Patrick was handling the stress. He was worried about all of it. They had three kids now. Two weeks later, they would get their fourth. 

So, Pete bought a chandelier. He ordered the grand thing online in the dead of night, the only light in the house being the pale blue of his computer screen. It arrived two days later, in a giant box. Two disgruntled men helped him set it up as Patrick shook his head. This is stupid Pete, he’d said in no uncertain terms. I love you but we cannot afford this chandelier. The thing was, they could afford it. They were rock stars, of course they could. Pete didn’t see the issue.

It ended up in the dining room. When everything was finished, Pete looked up at the thing with pride. It was beautiful, even in a typical kind of way. It was his small way of maintaining control in his increasingly chaotic life. It was perfect.

At that exact moment, miles away, an old car began to overheat.

It was a ridiculously modern kitchen. The only colors were white and grey, the only materials metal and ceramic. Everything was perfectly arranged, with the trash can carefully hidden. Ryan was afraid to move. Z stood in the middle of the kitchen, a sharp contrast of a person. She was full of color. Red blouse, blue jeans, blonde-brown hair and pieces of violet-pink jewelry scattered all over her. Right then, she was turning up the radio. It seemed stuck on the oldie’s station, much to Z’s annoyance.

“For years my grandma made this place a cottage,” she was saying. “Woodsy vibes. You know?”

Ryan said nothing.

Z continued anyway. “But then, one day, my mom walks in, and she’s like, darling. You simply must redecorate. I heard of this fantastic new designer--I can’t pronounce his name, not even gonna try--and he’ll make you feel like you’re living in the future.”

The radio stuttered. 

“My grandma loves sci-fi. Biggest fan of the Back to the Future series you’ll ever meet. So being in the future appealed to her. A lot. She brought this guy in, and he literally painted her microwave white. Place looks like a fucking museum. Still, pretty good pancakes.” And with that, she turned towards the stove. A few pots and pans lay, perfectly placed. Some batter lay in a perfect little bowl. 

Ryan crossed his arms. “Um--”

“You know how to cook?”

“No.”

“Awesome. I’m going to teach you.”

Z held up two pans, one in each hand, and stuck out her tongue. Ryan smiled, and it was oddly quiet for a few minutes. The radio began to play a soft piano melody. Some jazzy ode to the brave boys overseas. Z held up a small sheet of paper, barely bigger than her palm. 

“Okay, we’re still strangers, so I gotta ask. Are you...allergic to chocolate?”

Ryan shook his head. 

“Great, cause I have only ever made this recipe with chocolate chips. I don’t think I’ve ever ate pancakes without chocolate chips, now that I think about it. Can you get the veggie oil? I think it’s in the fridge. If it’s not in the fridge, we’re fucked.”

He walked over, and as soon as he opened the fridge, he was greeted with the sight of a giant, barely chopped up, deer corpse. He couldn’t help but jump back. “Oh my god!”

Z was busy stirring the batter. “No oil, huh? Shit.”

“No, there’s a--” Ryan’s throat closed in on itself.

“Ooh.” She set the batter down, haphazardly on a random counter. The room seemed to get brighter. “You found Jerry.”

Ryan’s eyes widened. “You named the dead deer?”

“No, I named the alive deer. Then he died. Of natural causes, don’t worry. Was getting old, and he walked right into a big branch, the poor fellow. So my brother decided to eat him.”

This was perhaps a little too much information for Ryan to comprehend all at once. “What.”

“I’m vegetarian myself. Been since sixth grade. But my brother likes to eat deer, and what can I say? He’s lived here all his life.”

“So-so have I.”

“Yeah, but you’re rich. Ryan Wentz, right?”

Ryan nodded, and dug his nails into his wrist. “Wait, how do you--”

“Relax. My grandma knows everyone. Is there oil in the fridge, or no?” 

Funnily enough, there was. Z squirted a bit of it on a pan, and reached for the temp controls. She smiled, and beckoned him closer. “Do you know your way around an oven, Ryan Wentz?”

He doesn’t. But instead of saying so, Ryan said, “Is Z your real name?” 

She shook her head. “‘Course not. It’s my hand name.”

“What--”

Without a word, Z lifted the back of her right hand up, to reveal a small, cursive letter Z tattoo. “Got it a few weeks ago. Pretty, huh?”

Ryan frowned. “There’s no way you got that legally.”

“I’m seventeen, Ryan. Not seven. Grandma was there. Legal as fuck.” She smirked. “My parents named me Elizabeth. Z was a natural nickname. I’ve gone by it as long as I’ve been alive.”

“Oh.” Ryan swallowed. 

Z laughed at the uncomfortable look on his face. “Okay, enough about me. Tell me about you, Ryan Wentz. First of all, any nicknames? Oh, and while you’re at it, the chocolate chips are in the cupboard.”

There are maybe seventy different cupboards, Ryan thought to himself. Still, he dutifully began to search. “Ryan’s my middle name, actually.”

“Oh, really? What’s your first?”

Ryan closed a cupboard door. “Is there a specific one I should be looking in? I really don’t--”

It was an inconvenient place. It was not meant to be used, but rather to be looked at and appreciated from a distance. Z hated those kinds of places, Ryan could tell. He liked that. He liked her run-on sentences and non sequiturs. It was nice to hear her talk and only absorb every other word. It was nice to hear her talk, period. She could never be a waste of time. 

“Tell me your first name, and I’ll tell you where they are. Deal?” Z raised an eyebrow.

“I--” Ryan sighed. “I would rather not.”

“Oh my god.” Z placed a hand over her mouth. Then, a stage whisper. “It’s Hitler, isn’t it?”

He took a step backward. “No.”

“It’s fucking Hitler. Your first name is Hitler. Oh my god, I’m making pancakes for a boy named Hitler. I can’t believe this.”

“It’s not Hitler.”

“Isn’t it, though?” Z squinted. 

Ryan looked at the ground. “It’s not.”

“Then what is it?”

“...George.”

There was a moment of silence. The clock ticked. The radio played a few seconds of static. Z removed the hand from her mouth, and giggled. “George. You so don’t look like a George.”

“I know.”

“George Ryan Wentz. I feel privileged to know this, George. Thank you for sharing. Fourth cupboard to your left.”

He moved to open the aforementioned cabinet. “Please just call me Ryan.”

“Sure thing...George.”

One small boy. One small car, windows rolled up. The sun, blazing down with all its power. It was the boy against nature, and he would not win. He was just so small. He was a scrap of a person. He took off his jacket, but it was little use. The sun had ultraviolet at its disposal. Blisters. Scorches. Histories of beating down on humans lost in the desert. Abandoned dogs. Babies. Little boys, trapped in cars. Left alone for hours by a man with liquor stained teeth.

His skin began getting hot to the touch. He stared at the window, and contemplated the cracks he could form. He was a tiny boy, with big eyes and small nose, but he did own two fists. He had only raised them as white flags before, hapless begs for mercy. Maybe he could use them for good now. He’d never really punched anything, but maybe glass wouldn’t be so bad. A kind of release, maybe. This would be the kind of thing that ended up on records, wouldn’t it? The boy had plenty of records. Of testimonies. Photos. He was part of the system. The system that got him into this spot. The sun striking him. Unashamed. The middle of nowhere. The sand. The desert. The empty road.

The boy ran a finger across the glass, and thought of trees. He thought of the sun. The man who said he’d just be a few minutes, but had left him here for much, much longer. The sun. The blazing sun. The oh-so-breakable glass. It was too much. It was all too much.

They finished the pancakes early. Z looked down at the stacks, a satisfied grin on her face. “You know, I think this is the best batch I’ve ever made. If I do say so myself.”

Ryan said nothing.

“I’m cool with you not speaking, by the way. Just in case you were wondering about that. The English language’s overrated, anyway. That’s why I’m learning sign language. And Spanish. But Spanish is for school. ASL is just for me.”

“I don’t know sign language.”

“Well neither do I. I’m just learning.” They both looked at the pancakes. At the golden little tin of syrup. At the white-and-red placemats. The insufferable robot white of the table.

“Shall we eat?” Z asked with a smile behind her words.

Ryan sat down, and gingerly lifted a fork. “You said you had issues, but you seem pretty fine to me,” he said between bites.

Z clutched her chest. “I’m flattered. But you’re not going to get me to open up that easily, George Ryan Wentz.”

“George Ryan Ross Wentz.”

“Hm?” Z poured a bit of syrup on her pancakes, but didn’t eat.

“That's my full name.”

She sighed, and turned towards him. “Okay, how about this. I tell you a secret little something about me, and you do the same. Like ping pong.”

“I don’t play.”

“‘Course you don’t. Fantastic game. Shall we begin?”

Ryan nodded. “How come you’re not eating?”

This proved a rather arresting question. Z set her fork down. “I used to avoid all food. Getting better, but sometimes it takes my body a minute or two to adjust to the fact that I eat now. And I eat a lot.”

“Oh.” Ryan didn’t know what to say. So he simply reached over, and handed Z a knife. “One time when I was very little, according to my parents anyway, I would only eat fig bars and chocolate milk. That was my breakfast, lunch, and dinner. It went on for months.”

Z began to slice her pancakes into tiny little bits. “What stopped ya?”

“Other kids started making fun of me.”

“Oh yeah. That’s murder.” She took a single, microscopic bite, and then another. “I hear LA kids are vicious.”

Ryan shrugged. “They can be. I doubt it’s any better…wherever you’re from.”

“Oklahoma,” Z said. A few more big bites. There were several potted plants around them, in odd square containers. They were far too lush for the room--far too natural for such a clinical atmosphere. “Place is boring, though. Nothing but tumbleweeds and Broadway nerds on road trips.”

Ryan made a soft little noise. “I love these pancakes.”

Z placed a hand on her heart. “Aww. That’s sweet. You’re pure, Ryan Wentz.”

“Not—not really.”

The sunlight filtered in through painfully avant-garde windows. Z turned to face Ryan, a tired expression on her face. “Oh god. You’re not one of those bad boys who act soft, are you? That’d be shitty.”

“I just—“ Ryan shrugged with one shoulder. “I don’t really want to talk right now. I should, I should be getting home soon anyway. I’ve been gone much too long—“

“Hey.” And Z placed her hand on his shoulder. Again. She focused him. Grounded him. The air began to feel a little easier to breathe. “I didn’t mean to upset you, Ryan. You can leave anytime you want. We don’t have to talk about things you don’t want to. Believe me, I get not wanting to talk. You just seem like a nice dude, who can make pancakes and isn’t a jerk, so I would maybe like to get to know you a little better. No pressure.”

Ryan deflated. He lay his head on the table, right next to his half-finished plate. “It’s just the foster care system. I was in it longer than my brothers.”

Z murmured a noise of sympathy, before letting Ryan finish.

“You can’t get out of that…clean. You don't get a chance to be normal. I became 'difficult', which just made everything harder. When you’ve got even one thing wrong with you, no one really wants you to succeed. They just want you to shut up.” 

“I mean…” Z sighed. “You may have problems, Ryan, but you’re not difficult. Not difficult to like, anyway. You’re pretty easy to like, as a matter of fact. You’re worthy.”

Ryan smiled.

An all-grey room. Grey walls. Grey door. Grey metal desk. Two grey chairs in front of the desk. An old woman behind the desk, strictly reading aloud a list of things from a file. Two men in the chairs, one with a fedora on his head. The little boy, his ear pressed right against the door, catching only half-sentences and offbeat syllables. Trying to hear his fate. 

“I’m warning you,” the old woman said. “The boy has been labeled as aggressive. There was an incident with a car window. His old foster parent—ver nice man, worked as a mechanic—left him alone in the car for, he says, just a few minutes, and the boy took that time to punch and escape through a side window. Was his reason for giving the kid up. Said he was much too violent. He’s not as, shall we say, easy as any of the other kids. The boy’s spent half his life in this very building.”

The fedora man spoke in a hushed tone. “Look, he stayed the last few weeks with us, and he was an absolute sweetheart. We want to adopt him. We’ve got the papers, we’re all set. We don’t want anyone else.”

“I just want you to know what you’re getting yourself into,” the old lady said defensively, her chair legs squeaking. “I can make a copy of his file for you, if you’d like. It’s quite thick. There’s lots of stuff in there. Medication. Testimonies. See here, he was found wandering the streets of—“

“We’ve seen his file,” the other man interrupted, his words tossed like poison darts. 

The little boy squealed, and pressed himself even closer to the door. He couldn’t help but feel the familiar poison of hope infect his veins. There was still a chance, after all. Maybe he was magical. Maybe all his trials were just tests by some cruel more-satan-than-god to see how good of a person he really was. Now, it was his moment of crisis, and a beyond-this-world figure had swept in to save him. Two figures, actually. He wondered about the nature of good and evil as he listened in to the rising voices. Life could get better. It would get better. He owed himself a second chance.

Of all the things he would end up saying to Ryan, “why look at you, so bright and cheery in the morning” was not one Jon expected to utter anytime soon. Still, the words fell out of his mouth the second Ryan walked in, late to breakfast for once, and a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. It was just them in the kitchen—everyone else had left, to do homework, work, or something in between.

“I met a girl today. Her name’s Z. She’s new in town.”

Jon poured himself another cup of coffee. “I am resisting making so many John Mulaney references right now.”

Ryan seemed oblivious. “We ate breakfast together. She’s a vegetarian, like Spencer, but also cool, unlike Spencer.”

Jon hissed. “Ry-burn.”

“She also used to work in a circus. As a trapeze understudy.”

“Look, this is adorable,” Spencer said, appearing in the doorway rather suddenly wearing a beige bathrobe and glasses. “But we have a very serious task at hand, and I’m going to need both of you guy’s help.”

“What?” Jon asked, worried.

Ryan felt the little slip of paper in his pocket between his two fingers.

“This is my number, silly. Call me if you learn a cool cat fact, or for just whatever.”

“T-thanks.”

Spencer wailed, and put his head in his hands. You got the feeling he’d been up late, planning, preparing for something. He had the air of an apocalypse predictor. “Ryan?”

“Yes?”

“Ryan, can you help me or not?”

“With what?”

At that, Spencer groaned, and held up a thick, black binder. “I tried telling them, but they didn’t believe me. And as long as Pete and Patrick are in the dark, we will never know peace. I’m going to prove Brendon and Dallon are fucking.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fuck you Ryan (not fic Ryan different Ryan) it's so late and I'm so tired.


	6. Z Berg

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I stan Z Berg with all my heart and so should you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is honestly probably the most chaotic of them all. I refuse to apologize for any of it.

One time, when she was very little, Z Berg fell in love with gowns. She blamed her mom—always dressing up in impeccable make-up and dresses, just to wander around the house. She was a stay at home mom who never went to parties and looked like a storybook princess. Z just wanted to fit in. At the ripe old age of seven, she threw her favorite pair of pants in a fire and swore to only wear dresses for the rest of her life.

Needless to say, she grew out of it. But for a while, she refused to go to school in anything other than a floor-length flowery gown. She earned the nickname ‘monkey’ after sneaking into her mother’s room so often and stealing tubes of lipstick and mascara. The stealing was what did her in—you can only take so much before boundaries and stern talks either shame you out of it, or make you into something new. Something sinister. Z took the shamed route.

On the day Z was invited to Ryan’s house, she hadn’t worn a dress in over three years. 

“Look, I’m not saying One Direction is bad—“ Josh put his hands up in a defensive position, “—all I’m saying is, our main pop princess Britney is out here still active and thriving, while they been dead a while.”

Tyler snorted. “Fuck you and fuck your family. The boys are so alive, in the hearts of those who truly believe.”

Jon just sighed, and looked up at the clouds. It was a beautiful day to hide by the school dumpsters and smoke weed. Almost perfect, really. He’d been hanging out with Tyler and Josh a lot recently, and while they sometimes weren’t the coolest, they were always the most entertaining. Getting to know them was just one surprise after another—Tyler had ten Justin Bieber posters in his room, they’d both been expelled from previous schools more than once, and Josh had set his kitchen on fire on two separate occasions.  
These are some weird ass motherfuckers, Jon would think, a blunt between his lips while Tyler and Josh wrestled. I love them.

“So?” Tyler turned to Jon with a stern face. “Which is it for you? Some blonde girl, or the four most talented men to ever grace the face of this earth?”

“I like blondes,” Jon said with a shrug. 

At the sound of footsteps, Josh’s head turned. “Shit!”

The standard scrambling ensued. Tyler shoved colorful bags in his backpack, then threw his backpack in the dumpster. Josh slapped himself in the face. Jon lay there, looking at the sky. A trembling hand—probably Tyler’s—took his blunt and tossed it aside. Everything was either crammed inside something else, hidden, or both. 

Then, a pale face appeared from behind a nearby tree, framed by a few careless curls. “Fellas?”

“Oh thank god,” Tyler sighed, and wrapped his arms around Z Berg. “My queen. It’s you. I love you.”

Z hesitantly hugged him back. “I think I met you once before, but okay.”

“He’s glad you’re not the principal,” Jon supplied, still lying on the ground. “Speaking of which, who are you?”

She cleared her throat. “You can call me Z. I’m new here, but my grandma told me you’re Jon Wentz. I kind of met your bro—“

“Oh my god!” Jon bolted up, and stood on his own two wobbly feet. He wasn’t dizzy, not really. But he was just slightly uncomfortable in the world right now. Maybe I’ve had too much, he thought faintly. Then he shook his head. “I know you! Like, say no more, I know your entire life story. Bam.”

“Oh.” Z raised an eyebrow, then clasped her hands together. “I um, I have a little question, since you know, I’m coming over for dinner tomorrow.”

Tyler sniffed. “Girl, I stan you so much. Our literal goddess, getting that dinner. What a time to be alive.” 

Josh gently pulled Tyler away by the arm, whispering little things in his ear. Even when Josh was high as hell, he knew how to calm Tyler down. Thank god. “So, what’s your question?” Jon asked.

Z looked surprisingly vulnerable as she ducked her head. “I was wondering about the dress code, really. I don’t really like wearing dresses and stuff, but I get you guys are basically modern Gatsby’s, so. Like, what clothes should I wear to the grand ball?”

A few leaves settled by her feet, and Jon looked down at his own humble outfit of a hoodie and jeans with confusion. “I mean, they let me dress like a hobo so…whatever you want dude. Dudette. Dude-io.”

She smiled, and moved forward to dig Tyler’s backpack out of the trash. “I’m assuming there’s weed in this?”

“Nope,” Josh said.

“Never.” Tyler clutched his chest. “We would never. We just wouldn’t.”

“Yep,” Jon said, somehow lying on the ground again.

Z laughed, and sat down next to Jon, the smelly backpack still in her hands. “I like you guys already. Now, we’ve got like, ten minutes until lunch ends. Let’s make em count, okay? I wanna be higher than the fucking moon.”

The sheets smelled like coconut. That was the first thing Dallon noticed, as he woke up in Brendon’s bed for the third time this week. He didn’t mind the smell, in fact he rather liked how strong it was. It reminded him exactly where he was. That he had somewhere to go now that wasn’t home.  
Even if this ‘somewhere’ wasn’t perfect, even if it included a boy that didn’t really love him and a house much too classy for anyone, it was still better. His life was getting better. Despite the odds.

Brendon stirred beside him, and Dallon couldn’t help but brush a hand against the other boy’s arm. “Good morning Bren.”

Things were just so nice in the morning. Cause in the haze of just-woke-up, Brendon wouldn’t hesitate to crumble into Dallon’s arms, and press his head against Dallon’s chest. His eyes still scrunched shut, and bare arms covered in little red and brown marks. “Morning? Mm, wanna go back to bed…”

“We are in bed, silly. We should be getting up soon though. Come on, I’ll make you breakfast?” The last sentence seemed to finally awaken Brendon, as his eyes popped open. 

“Breakfast?” he asked through a yawn. Under the covers, Dallon felt his ankle kick against Dallon’s shin. They were both surrounded by skin.

Dallon smiled. “Totally. I could make you scrambled eggs, some french toast…”

“Yes!” Brendon raised a hand to grip Dallon’s hair. “I want all. All of it. Want you to move in with me too.”

“W-what?” Dallon was suddenly fully awake, and fully afraid.

“Move in with me,” Brendon mumbled, unbothered. “Move in with me, please. I know you want to. Ryan’s friend—Eliza something—is coming over and we can just, we’ll tell my parents over dinner. That you’re gonna live here now. And everything will be fine.”

Wishful thinking, Dallon told himself. This is wishful thinking. What I am doing now is being stupid. Being hopeful. I should never hope. I should stop everything right now. “Sure.”

It was still early enough to be lazy, to take their time. Brendon jumped up, and straddled Dallon’s thigh. “This is the best day ever,” he chirped, perfectly unaware of the conflicting emotions on Dallon’s face.  
Before Dallon could respond, Brendon let out a moan. “Oh god, wanna ride your thigh.”

And through it’s startling how quickly they transitioned from wholesome to not, Dallon didn’t mind. He couldn’t. Not when it’s Brendon. “You do, baby?”

Brendon nodded, and began to rut harder. His breathes turned into whines, and Dallon had the privilege of sitting back and just watching the show. Enjoying how quickly Brendon fell apart.

Ryan, meanwhile, had the unique experience of hearing everything that was going on through the thin walls of his own room. The house’s bedrooms were awkwardly spread out—Spencer’s on the first floor, Jon’s on the third, Pete and Patrick’s on the third as well, and Brendon and Ryan’s side by side on the second. Despite it being a ridiculously expensive place to live, not one inch of it was soundproofed. Thus, Ryan was in hell. Not hesitating, he dialed Z. 

“Let me guess,” she said after picking up on the third ring. “It’s the kinky tall boy and the closeted short one, at it again.”

“The tall one’s name is Dallon, and I think he’s moving in soon,” Ryan said, defeated. 

Z gasped. “You poor thing!”

Ryan accepted the label easily enough. “I just wish I didn’t have to overhear so much,” he admitted. He was sitting just outside his room now, and still couldn’t escape the noises. “I shouldn’t be able to list every single kink my brother has.”

“I mean on one hand, I feel you,” Z said. “But on the other hand, I feel like you’re not fully accepting the blackmail possibilities here.”

“Like what?” Ryan asked. He treaded slowly down the stairs, trying to find a place in the house where he wouldn’t be able to hear anything. This had become part of his morning routine.

Z was sitting on her roof, casually painting her nails when the connection went static. She waited a moment before responding. “Didn’t you tell me Spencer was working on exposing them, something like that? You could let Spencer know when shit’s going down, then he could record some proof. Ya know?”

Even across the wire, Z could feel Ryan’s frown. “I…I don’t know about that.”

She blew on one fingertip, before sighing and applying another coat. “I mean, you do you, George.”

“I told you not to call me that.”

Finally. Ryan’s shoulders relaxed as he reached the kitchen. Safety. Z giggled. “Anyway, when should I get there? Little before dinner starts, or fashionably late?”

At the sight of his dad, Pete, eating peanut butter right from the can, Ryan’s stomach lurched. “I-I gotta go. Bye!” He hung up, leaving a very confused Z clutching her phone in one hand and nail polish in the other.

Pete looked up with a grin. “Was that your girlfriend?” he asked, hands absolutely covered in butter. 

“She’s not my girlfriend,” Ryan said, and took a step backwards. “What are you doing?”

“Eating, duh.” Pete rolled his eyes. “Anyway, when’s she coming over?” He looked up, only to find Ryan had disappeared. 

The dinner started late. Part of that was Patrick’s fault—he wasn’t a terrible cook, but he was a clumsy one, and managed to burn two chickens before getting one ‘just right.’ He also insisted on decorating—putting up a few forgotten pink streamers and a red tablecloth, despite knowing the boys would only ruin it. Pete couldn’t bring himself to stop Patrick, so he just stood to the side, alternating between shaking his head and crossing his arms.

Part of that was Z’s fault—having decided to arrive fashionably late, she waited until the last possible second to leave her grandma’s house, and rather than hitching a ride, walked. Still, she could be forgiven for walking. Z lived in one of the last beautiful places in Los Angeles, a green pocket that was twice as dreamy as the city around it. Not to mention, she’d grown up in tumbleweeds and factories—genuine forests and singing birds were shocking. They were daring. They were animals worthy of sonnets and ballads, love songs and ballet.

But while Z wandered around in a slice of jungle paradise, Patrick, Pete, Ryan, Spencer, Jon, Brendon and Dallon sat around a dining table, growing more and more uncomfortable.

It didn’t help how closely Brendon and Dallon sat together, how unwilling Ryan was to speak, or how obviously sky-high Jon was. This is such a cursed clusterfuck, Spencer thought with a fizzy drink to his lips. And really, he wasn’t wrong. 

“So,” Patrick said brightly. “The end of the semester is coming up.”

Ryan stared at the ground.

Pete nodded. “It is indeed, Patrick. That means we’ll be seeing these lovely boys’ grades soon. All of them.”

Ryan stared at the ground somehow even harder.

“Guys…my bros…” Jon leaned forward with a conspiratorial grin. He hadn’t touched the food on his plate, but then again, neither had anyone else. “I have…like….an announcement…”

Patrick, ever the optimist, beamed. “What is it sweetie?”

“I-I also have an announcement!” Brendon blurted out. He was tightly gripping Dallon’s hand under the table, something only clear to him, Dallon, and everyone else in the room. He’d entered dinner with messy hair and a slightly unbuttoned shirt. Dallon in tow. Spencer had drawn his conclusions, and reached for a glass.

“Oh…?” Patrick asked a little less brightly.

It was then Z burst through the front door, wearing a too-big leather jacket and red sunglasses. “Hello!”

Pete felt for a bag of popcorn.

Patrick clapped his hands together, and grinned. “Eliza, darling! We’ve heard so much about you, please take a seat.”

“Call me Z,” she said, and plopped down right next to Ryan. She was pleasantly surprised to find a meat-less plate prepared for her: noodles and green beans, a few slices of toasted bread with a little square of butter. Perfect, really. 

However, she was given no time to be touched. Jon slammed the table, and brought out a giant sheet of paper from his pocket with gusto. “My announcement! I can say it now!”

“Yeah?” Z bit a fingernail. “What is it?”

In that moment, Jon looked more proud of himself than he had in his entire life. He held up a giant, indescribable drawing with pride. “I, Jon Walker Wentz, have invented a planet.”

Dallon locked eyes with Z from across the table, and gave a little shrug. It was hard to miss the way his eyes darted down to a pink spot under Brendon’s ear. 

Patrick’s sunny attitude was dissolving. “You…what?”

“It’s named god,” Jon added. “After me.”

Spencer sighed. “For the last time, your name is not god.”

Z could feel the tensions in the room rising. Thank god I’ve got the best view, she thought to herself. “Jon backwards is god, okay?” Jon said dismissively. “Don’t believe me? Then what’s god backwards? It’s Jon, bitch.”

“This is bullshit!” Brendon shouted, and then turned to the silently stunned Pete and Patrick. “I have some thing actually fucking important to say. Look, dad, papa—I, Dallon’s living with us now. And you can’t do anything about it. He’s moving in, we’ve packed his things, we’re doing this.”

Ryan dropped his fork. 

Pete for once appeared at a loss for words. “Brendon, you can’t just have a stranger—“

“Yeah, well, I did.” Brendon’s tone turned childish, even as he grasped onto Dallon with white knuckles. He seemed to be both terrified and unshakeable. Z took a moment from her sitting-back-and-watching to wonder just exactly what was going through Brendon’s head. 

Spencer reappeared in the doorway with a newly filled glass. His exit had gone understandably unnoticed. He sat down, and his shoulders hunched. “He’s not a stranger, guys. His name is Dallon, and he’s Brendon’s boyfriend.”

A hurried exhale.

“I’m not gay,” Brendon said, all too quickly. Under the table, he let go of Dallon’s hand. 

Z raised an eyebrow. She was stuck in a still—just about to raise the noodles to her mouth, lips open, eyes wide. “Brendon,” she said under her breath, “you think...we can't hear you?”

Brendon swallowed. “Look I don't care what you can hear or not, I'm not gay.”

Dallon coughed.

There was a moment of silence, almost as profound as a funeral mourning. Everyone’s muscles seemed to be clenched, throats tightened. Even Z could feel her body falling ill to the side affects. The aftershock.

It was Patrick who finally broke it. With the grace of a retired ballerina, he inhaled, and set his fork and knife down. “We seem to be forgetting the purpose of this dinner,” he said quietly. “We should be getting to know this lovely lady here, Z Berg, not arguing.”

Everyone settled into their familiar uneasy shapes. Z smiled, and she couldn’t help but enjoy her brief moment in the spotlight. “Why thank you Patrick,” she said. “Really, though I’m not very interesting. I just moved to L.A., all cause of my grandma, and before that I lived in Oklahoma. Sometimes I like to play guitar. That’s about it.”

“So you just moved?” Patrick poured himself another cup of tea as Spencer sunk down in his seat. “Right in the middle of the school year? That’s definitely an adjustment.”

She shrugged. “I do my best.”

Then Jon, half-asleep at this point, let out a weak cheer. “Did you hear about my planet, miss queen?” he managed to get out. “It’s named—“

Ryan softly got up, and left the room. 

Z didn’t wait to follow him, or offer a goodbye. She hurried right after him, high heels not making a noise against the plush carpet. Pete’s worried eyes followed her. He gripped the arms of his chair. Yet another morbid silence settled in over the room.

The house was a maze. The literary kind—the level of maze that was an art in and of itself. It hid itself, it found itself, it went around in circles like that again and again. Worse yet, it had a personality, making it the kind of maze you could fall in love with, or hate forever. The choice was yours, even as it demanded to be loved. It’s dead ends and intricate carvings demanded haikus and pretentious poems. It’s staircases and bookshelves stretched on before you like mounds of sand and dirt. Truly, a cinematic marvel of a maze. Truly, a horror to wander in. 

Z pushed herself past small closets and grand ballrooms. She sneaked under tables with clawed feet, imagining herself as a famous spy. It would be easy to get lost in the scenery here. Vintage posters, marble sculptures, and oil paintings abounded in one great mishmash of things. She could drown in the, the…things. The boundless excess of it all. But she shouldn’t. She had a mission. She had a lost boy to find, and rescue. 

She found Ryan, curled up on his bed, in the maze’s sweet center.

“So.” She sat on the edge of the bed. “Dinner—not really your thing, huh?”

Ryan shook his head. “I’m sorry. This was probably really bad for you.”

“Dude, so much happened.” Z inched closer, and took her time to look at the one stuffed animal on Ryan’s bed. A blue giraffe. “I feel like I witnessed the signing of the declaration of independence or something.”

“So…not terrible?” Ryan looked confused. He was still curled in on himself, still not really facing Z.

She just laughed. “No, not terrible at all.”

And there was no grand reconciliation, or sudden change of heart, but Ryan did emerge from his cocoon long enough to play a few mindless video games with Z, and to laugh with her in the late evening over one or two random jokes. Sure it was late, and she could feel the lightheadedness getting to her, but it didn’t matter. Eventually, when he’d had enough, Ryan fell asleep on his own bedroom floor.

When she left Ryan’s room, Spencer was already outside, waiting for her. He looked remarkably like he’d just aged five years, and was cradling a cup of black coffee. Z followed him all the way to the kitchen, where he then proceeded to sit wordlessly on a granite counter.

“Oh god, this family—man,” he said, and let out a short little laugh. “They’re gonna be the death of me.”

Z smiled, despite herself. “I don’t think you guys are that bad.”

The tapping sound of rain against the windows. Spencer frowned into his cup. “We’re just all very weird. Every single last one of us. I don’t know how you deal with it, I really don’t.”

“Well…” she trailed off. “I mean, if you could run away from this family, right now, and start fresh, would you?”

“‘Course not.”

She shrugged. “Then that’s how I ‘deal with it.’”

For the first time in the conversation, Spencer took some time to sit with her words. He gestured for Z to sit next to him on the counter, and after moving a few placemats, she did so. It was impossibly late, the kind of time no one should be up. And yet, there they were. Sitting side by side.

Spencer set down his drink. “I just wish everyone was better at being…themselves, I guess. Brendon’s been on gay internet forums, getting blowjob tips since he was ten, but he’s still the biggest closet case you’ll ever see. Ryan’s legitimately the sweetest guy I know, but I rarely ever see him smile. And Jon is…Jon is Jon.”

“Yeah, I get that.” There didn’t seem to be much else she could say.

Then, Spencer jumped down from the counter, and walked over to the fridge. He pulled out of it a fancy china plate, covered in tinfoil, which he handed over to Z. “Here. You left early, so Patrick saved your plate.”

She couldn’t help but be grateful. It was just a plate of noodles, sure. But it was her plate of noodles, and hers alone. “Thanks.”

There was no ‘you’re welcome’, just uneasy silence. She decided to fill it with an uneasy question. “So…Brendon’s been looking up blowjobs since ten? What’s with that?”

An indifferent expression displayed on Spencer’s face. “When he was very little, he used to tell me everything. I’m a few years older, and I guess he saw me as someone to confide in. He told me about a bunch of guys he would talk to online, I think some were even adults. He said they were giving him advice in all kinds of things…he only elaborated a little. I took his computer away.”

“Wait—“ Z frowned. “Were they—“

Spencer maintained the same stony complexion. “It’s really not my story to tell. The one story I can tell is walking in on him deep-throating a banana.”

Z snorted. “Oh my god.”

“You know—“ Spencer sat down next to her again. “I’m sure I don’t have to tell you this, but you’re the first person Ryan’s invited over, in maybe ever.”

The dishwasher softly hummed. Z stared at her shoes.

Spencer continued. “And I get the feeling that you spend a lot of time just telling Ryan things are going to be okay. I think it’s a brave and honorable thing to comfort, I do, but I hope you know what you’re getting yourself into.”

“I mean, I did just survive that dinner,” Z joked.

“We’re dysfunctional,” Spencer said, and stared into the air. “We’re dysfunctional, and I don’t think any of us are changing anytime soon. Brendon’s going to stay in denial. Pete won’t know how to talk to Ryan, and vice versa. Patrick isn’t going to understand a bit of it. Jon’s heading to the clouds so he doesn’t have to think about anything. I just don’t want you thinking we’re a normal family, Z. We’re so far from that.”

For some reason, right then Z’s mind went to the roof. She’d seen it from below—a gated off area on top of the Wentz residence. Little golden spikes to deter anyone from climbing. She liked hanging out on the roof of her grandma’s house. She liked the slightly thinner air and closeness to birds. What would it be like, to be on top of this gigantic house, and stare down at the passers-by? Z decided it would be like playing god. 

What kind of teen girl daydreamed about playing god?

Maybe the same kind that used to steal make-up to feel special, that used to swear off clothing by burning it, and purposefully sought out the strangest of people to be the best of friends with. 

“Warning is appreciated, don’t get me wrong.” She took a bite of her noodles. “Thing is, I don’t much care for normal families.”

Spencer raised his glass. “I’ll drink to that.”

And so they did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Friendly reminder to stan Z Berg. Also these updates are as regular as my period, and I am sorry for that.


	7. Pete

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pete Wentz is taller than me that's how fucking short I am. Also there's more poorly written smut in this chapter, it's Peterick, and I do *not* have the energy to edit it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Corona virus cancelled my school so updates might come much sooner now :)

“...Dad?”

Pete turned around in his swivel chair. He was in his office, attending to meaningless business talks and concert schedules. His office door was locked, and yet a much younger Brendon still stood before him, looking very angry. It would be pointless to wonder how. “Yeah B?”

Another absolute wretched glare from those big brown eyes. “You said you wouldn’t call me that anymore.”

“Yeah, well…” Pete shrugged. “Parents are gonna break promises. So will all adults. That’s an important life lesson. You were saying?”

Brendon cast his eyes to the ground. “There’s a--a boy here. He’s not talking but Patrick says he’s my brother. I have enough brothers, dad. Can we send him back?”

“Awh.” Pete opened his arms, and beckoned Brendon closer. “Absolutely not. You know why?”

“No.” Brendon moved into the hug with a scowl on his face.

“Because Patrick says so,” Pete said happily. “Plus, this is like, totally our last kid. Unless Patrick decides to get another, in which case, we will simply have one more.”

Brendon let out an annoyed noise, even as he nestled further into his dad’s arms. “How come Patrick gets everything he wants?”

“Cause he’s Patrick. The love of my life. The most handsome man in the world. What more can I say, he’s motherfucking Patrick Stump.” Pete released Brendon from his clutches. “Now go make you and your new brother breakfast. Tell Pat I’ll be down in a minute. I just have a few more things to work through.”

  
  


Pete woke up with a pounding headache, before his alarm for once. Patrick was lying next to him, fast asleep in a way-too-large t-shirt. Pete didn’t hesitate to violently shake him until he was awake as well. “Pat! Patty!”

“What…?” Patrick rubbed his eyes, and glanced quickly at the clock. “Oh my god, it’s five am.”

“It is?” Pete narrowed his eyes. “Oh shit it is. Anyway, I had this super weird dream. Can I tell you about it? Please?”

It was a testament to his undying love for Pete that Patrick didn’t just roll over and go back to sleep. Instead he sat up, and reached for his glasses that he kept on the bedside table. “Yeah, of course.”

Pete lay his head down in Patrick’s lap. “Okay, so, it was like this picture-perfect frame for frame flashback. Around the time we got Ryan. It was so creepy, like. The words, the setting, everything was incredibly realistic. Brendon was chilling with me, we were vibing, exactly like we used to. Before...everything.”

“Mm.” Patrick kneaded a soft piece of comforter between his fingers. “Maybe you’re trying to relive the past. You feel like you messed up the present, so you want to go back in time and fix things.”

“Pssh.” Inside his mind, Pete began to panic. “That’s ridiculous.”

“Just offering a suggestion,” Patrick said softly. He had a few dark circles under his eyes. In the early morning light, Pete thought he looked exactly like the type of person he used to write songs about falling in love with.

“I bet it’s pre-interview jitters,” Pete said, and bit the inside of his cheek.

Patrick squinted. “Honey, you haven’t had those in maybe...a little less twenty years? We’re getting old, wow.”

“Yeah, well--” Pete got up, to rest his head on Patrick’s shoulder. “It’s been a while, all cooped up in this old house with no new tabloid rumors about me. Maybe I’m regressing. Aging backwards. Maybe I’ll have to relearn the alphabet. Goo goo ga ga.”

A loud thump could be heard from downstairs, which Patrick chose to willfully ignore. “That’s fair,” he said as his husband began to nip at his neck. “But if you start wearing bibs, or any of that stuff, I’m going to kick you out.”

Pete pressed his nose against the soft skin of Patrick’s shoulder, before giving Patrick’s cheek a quick peck. “Kinky.”

“You’re impossible,” Patrick muttered, even through his smile. “How much time do we have before the kids wake up and you have to leave?”

“Enough.” A grinning Pete slid a hand up Patrick’s shirt.

They’d done things much, much riskier, but Patrick still let out a small sigh when Pete began palming him through his boxers. “That’s…”

“Good?” Pete kissed Patrick hard, and then moved to straddle him. “I think I wanna go down on you.”

“You ‘think’?” Even as he let out small moans, coming undone under Pete’s soft touches, Patrick still had the energy to be incredulous. “Either blow me or don’t.”

Pete went to pull down his husband’s pants, appreciating how Patrick was already half-hard. “Hey. New song title right there.”

“What the f—“ Not unexpectedly, he was cut off by Pete leaning down to suck the tip of his cock. It just felt way too good, early in the morning with a warm body against him. The sunlight on his face, and Pete’s warm mouth against his thighs. Making him worry about being so loud. 

They’d been together long enough that Pete knew exactly what to do. He licked long, torturous stripes along Patrick’s dick, preventing him from bucking up with firm hands on his shaking hips. He couldn’t move, just let out little noises telling Pete exactly how well he was doing. 

“You taste so good,” Pete whispered, while starting to get Patrick off with his hand. He was speaking in a much lower tone and it went straight to Patrick’s cock. 

“Oh god,” Patrick whined. Pete hadn’t even done anything, not really, and his legs were still helplessly spread. 

Just as it seemed Pete’s about to finally, finally blow him—which was what he’d  _ said _ he was gonna do—Pete pulled back again. Patrick might’ve lost it right there, he really might’ve, if Pete hadn’t then immediately shoved two fingers in his ass. 

“Mmph!” Patrick shut his mouth tightly, and looked up at the ceiling. Pete just laughed, the prick, and expertly pushed his fingers in further. It was too much stimulation, all at once, especially when Pete’s fingers brushed against his prostate. “Oh…”

He was so close already, and then Pete sucked him down. In one swift movement. Patrick felt a little lightheaded when he didn’t know whether to thrust into Pete’s mouth or fuck himself on his fingers. He settled for sitting back and enjoying how well Pete knew him. And how soft Pete’s lips were against his fully hard dick.

Pete was rutting against the mattress too, letting out positively sinful groans. It was almost too much to handle, the sight of Pete deepthroating him while desperately trying to get himself off as well. Making him feel so damn good. There was a rising heat in his stomach, and he knew this was going to be over soon. “Need to—do this more—often—“ Patrick collapsed into the mattress as an orgasm rippled through him. “Oh my—“

Even better was how Pete kept going, barely even pausing to swallow before continuing to fuck his fingers in and out, and taking his cock in mouth. Patrick would’ve been impressed, but he was really, really sensitive now, and definitely was not going to come again. He tried to tell Pete this, but unfortunately it came out as a moan.

“Just, let go, honey, I know you can,” Pete said after pulling off for a merciful second. “Come on, come on…” Then he pressed his tongue right against that one spot on the base of his cock that made Patrick lose it, and at the same time, added a third finger.

Patrick came again, spurting weakly in his lover’s hand. He panted harshly as Pete released him from his grasp, and lay down beside him. I’m getting too old for this, Patrick thought as he felt like dissolving. 

Still, there was Pete, hastily putting his boxers back on and rubbing his eyes. He pressed a kiss against Patrick’s elbow. “You’re perfect, you know that?”

“Nope.” Patrick pulled the filthy covers up to his chest. “Call me when you get to the place.”

Pete didn’t answer--Patrick seemed to be falling asleep again, and he didn’t want to disturb him. Besides, it was about time for him to start agonizing over what to wear, and eventually decide on the worst possible choice. Tradition, Pete reminded himself as he opened up his closet, valiantly ignoring his still-hard dick. Tradition. 

  
  


A loud click. “Brendon! How does your father treat you?”

Brendon opened a single eye, and sighed. “Ah shit.” He got out from under Dallon’s arms—no easy task—and walked over to the window, bracing himself for the worst. 

His curtains were drawn tight, but there was the smallest crack in between them. He peered through it to see a chattering crowd of people with cameras and coffee, notepads and pencils. Phones. Recording. Another loud click, and he was awake. 

“Brendon, it’s safe to talk to me!” One man with a microphone shouted. “Here at—“

“Ah, shit!” Brendon stepped away from the window, just now remembering that he was completely, utterly, naked. “Ah, fuck!”

Dallon stirred. “Bren?”

“I—“ Brendon attempted to close the curtains even tighter. “Just, don’t move, Dal. Also, don’t leave the house.”

“Why not?” Dallon laughed until he saw the expression on Brendon’s face.

Brendon picked at his nails. “They’re back. It always happens, sooner or later. Every year. Just trust me, okay? And stay away from windows. You can’t be seen. You just can’t.”

“Wait—“ Dallon reached for his shirt. “Why…why can’t they see me?”

“They just can’t.” Brendon bit the inside of his cheek. 

Dallon frowned, but then put on a pair of pants. He sat at the bedside for a moment, looking at Brendon, who was still fully exposed. “Oh. Okay, got it.”

“Really?” Outside the clicks and flashes continued. Brendon’s hands made themselves into fists.

“Yeah.” Dallon got up. “It’s chill. You don’t want anyone to know you’ve got a fag boyfriend.”

Brendon’s face fell.

Everything seemed to grow much, much louder. The voices outside. Dallon, rooting around for a pair of socks. The closet door sliding open. “Hell—“ Dallon’s little chuckle as Brendon struggled to speak. “ _ You _ don’t want to know you’ve got a fag boyfriend. Or that he fucks you every night, without a condom or lube because you ‘like to feel it’.”

For once, a quick denial didn’t spring to Brendon’s lips. “Dallon…”

“And you can’t stand the thought of anyone knowing you begged this fag boyfriend to move in. That you want him so badly. That really, you might be the biggest fag of all.”

There was a sudden, definite lack of words in Brendon’s mouth, of phrases on his tongue and coping mechanisms in his mind. "I--"

Brendon’s bedroom door swung open. Dallon looked back with tired eyes. “Well? Anything to say?”

“Look, you--“ Brendon cleared his throat, and sat down on his bed. “You’re hot as hell. You’re super smart. You know me, better than most people in this house if I’m being honest. If I liked guys, believe me Dal we would be dating. But I don’t, okay? I really, really don't.”

Dallon left the door open, and walked back. He didn’t say anything as he kneeled on the plush carpet, and pulled Brendon into a soft, feather-light kiss. Brendon framed Dallon’s face with his hands and pulled him closer. They kissed slowly as the noise of the reporters outside began to die down. Dallon reached up to grip the back of Brendon’s neck, and Brendon just let himself melt into it.

It took awhile for Dallon to pull back. He eased out of Brendon’s grip bit by bit, eventually ending up by the door once more. “You’re cute when you lie.”

  
  


Spencer stood outside in the hallway, in a fluffy purple robe and bunny slippers. Dallon saw him the second he stepped out, and before he could ask, Spencer answered. “Yes, I heard,” he said with a certain amount of disinterest. “Are you okay?”

This was one question Dallon absolutely did not want to answer. “Shouldn’t you be at school by now? You’ve got that whole--morning school thing--”

“It’s an interview day.” Spencer crossed his arms. “None of us can go outside whenever one of our dads does one. So we’ve all got a day off. Jon’s going to try and grow weed on the roof. Ryan’s in a bit of a panic because he can’t go and see his trees, but other than that, his days’ pretty normal. And I want to talk to you.”

“Why?” Dallon felt a pit form in his stomach. 

“It’s nothing bad,” Spencer said dismissively. “I just don’t really know you. And it seems like you might be around for a while, what with Brendon insisting you move in and eye-fucking you constantly.”

The house remained quiet for a few rare moments. “You know more about me than my dad does,” Dallon finally said. 

“Angsty backstory huh? Well, you have plenty of time to spill over breakfast. I can make eggs and waffles, but not much else, so.” Spencer uncrossed his arms, and put his hands in his pockets.

A corner of Dallon’s mouth turned up. “That actually sounds great.”

  
  


Pete arrived at the magazine’s headquarters just after noon. He was half an hour late, but figured no one would really mind. Besides, he had to keep up the chaotic rockstar image somehow. It was what got him into places like this--white walls covered in modern art, everyone in suits, and see-through tables. The receptionist nodded at him, and Pete nodded back as subtly as he could. Another pair of glossy logo-covered doors, a minute or two wandering through the hedge maze, and he was in. The famous Blue Room. Host to a wide variety of celebs throughout the years that not even Patrick could be bothered to name.

It was a nice room though. Pete was never one for gardens, but the room was circular, and had windows on all sides showing a wide array of plants that were practically glowing. There was a big skylight, too, showing off the absurdly perfect sky. The most astonishing thing about the room though, was it’s silence. It was remarkably quiet, stuck in the middle of a garden almost no one was allowed into. Which was a real shame, Pete thought. I’d like to show Ryan this place. He might appreciate it more.

A woman with a notepad sat in a baby blue chair ten or so feet away. Pete sat in the chair closest to her, and braced himself. 

She was made up of sharp angles, and yet her voice was smooth and deep. Radio ready. “Welcome to the Blue Room Mr. Wentz,” she said with a smile that seemed genuine.

Pete dug a finger into the chair’s arm. “Sup.”

“This is your first interview in quite some time, is it not?” She knew how long it had been, no doubt, but this would make a nice introduction.

“Yeah.” Pete began to slouch, even though he knew it looked bad. “About five years, I think. Maybe six?”

She scribbled something down. “Well, welcome back.”

“It’s a pleasure.” Pete gave a thumbs up.

The interviewer plowed ahead. “You’ve been a near constant figure in the music scene since Fall Out Boy released their debut in 2003. But almost a decade ago, you decided to step aside to spend more time with family. What led up to that decision?”

This was the question he’d anticipated the most. “Well, our kids were growing up,” Pete said with a little laugh. “Way too fast. Spencer, our oldest, was speaking full sentences when it seemed like a second ago he’d barely been walking. And we were missing it, cause we were on tour, doing crazy shit. I’m not saying crazy shit isn’t fun, but like, we needed a break you know? It just made sense.”

A soft breeze seemed to be picking up outside, rustling the blue roses and lavender. Pete was still a little nervous, but as the woman moved on to the next question, his anxiety began to lessen. 

“Has it been difficult, stepping aside?”

_ Yes. _

_ So difficult, you have no idea. Fatherhood is not for the faint of heart. Neither is marriage. I sometimes wonder if I’ve messed everything up. If I’m spiraling out of control. _

“Ah,” Pete cleared his throat. “Not really. Me and Patrick, we try and take it one day at a time. It’s just like when we first came out—there was so, so much hate at first. It seemed like we couldn’t ever get the hang of it. But we did, and we’re in a really good place right now.” An acceptable answer. Nice. Sweet.

“What would you say is the most rewarding part of being a father?” She asked, leaning forward.

_ Surprisingly, Patrick was the first to speak. “I-I’m sorry. I don’t know why I keep blowing up like this. You didn’t do anything wrong.” _

_ “No, you’re right.” Pete nodded. “I should’ve helped look for Ryan. Hell, where even was he?” _

_ “We…still don’t know. He’s not talking.” _

_ Pete snorted. “Of course he’s not. There’s nothing wrong with being silent, I know. I just miss the kid’s voice.” _

_ “He—he’ll open up when he’s ready.” _

“Getting my kids to talk to me, definitely,” Pete said. “You know, I get that they’re super moody teens now and all that, but sitting down with them and communicating is still super important to me.”

She nodded. “And how have your kids reacted to being in the spotlight?”

“Well, we’ve tried to shelter them as best we can.” Pete grimaced. “Still you can’t hide them completely. We’ve thought about moving ever since our address got leaked online, but we really like where we’re at right now. It’s a lovely little house, and the neighborhood’s fantastic. Plus, our kids are all troupers really. Strong as hell.”

“Brendon especially?” Another scribble in that goddamn notepad.

A pinprick of confusion in Pete’s eyes. Still, he thought of the script. The tidbits and phrases to sneak into certain questions to maintain his sanity. “I’m--I’m not sure any kid in particular is more strong than the others. They’re all my role models, just in different ways.”

Outside, the soft breeze seemed to turn into a more intense wind. Stems bent. Twigs crossed. The woman gave Pete a look that almost seemed pitying. “Well, I was just wondering how Brendon might be coping with the media storm around him this morning.”

Pete tugged on a finger. “What?”

  
  


It was halfway through eating the best damn eggs he’d ever had that Dallon decided to check his phone. 

He’d been receiving a weird amount of buzzes recently. One after another and it’s not like there was a big world event or something. It was probably just a drunk Matt blowing up his phone again, but he still had to check.

“Holy. Fucking. Shit.”

Spencer looked up from his newspaper. “What?”

Dallon showed Spencer a growing cluster of headlines, hashtags and reblogs. “I’m trending on Twitter.”

“Oh shit.” Some frantic movement seemed to be happening upstairs. Spencer moved to set down his newspaper, but then paused. “Do you...listen to the radio, watch the charts, anything like that?”

“I guess not.” Dallon shrugged. “I mainly just listen to David Bowie, and some Iggy Pop. Not much else.”

This did not seem to be comforting to Spencer in the slightest. “Do you...know Fall Out Boy?”

“Don’t think so…” Dallon began scrolling. “Why?”

Spencer gripped the sides of his head. “Oh. My. God.”

“What?”

“You don’t have a clue what’s going to happen, do you?” Spencer got up, and his chair creaked as he pushed it aside. “There will. Be fan art about you. And not the good kind.”

Just as another question formed in Dallon’s mind, he stumbled on a photo that was all too familiar. It was Brendon, nude from the waist up. With Dallon’s hand on his cheek. The photo was blurry, and small—they could be barely seen from the gap between curtains. Still, you got the gist. Someone could even be forgiven for thinking they were in love. 

All at once, he understood.

He saw Brendon’s name trending higher than his own, and he suddenly wanted nothing other than to take Brendon in his arms. 

Then there were Z Berg’s hands on his shoulders. At this point, Dallon wasn’t even startled. “Hi guys. Didn’t know you were up yet, it’s wicked early.”

“Ah, well—“ Spencer walked back into the room carrying no less than two computers, and what looked like three coffee bags. “We’re dealing with a bit of a press problem right now, if you hadn’t noticed.”

Z shrugged, and moved into the kitchen. She’d become a bit of a regular at the house lately, popping in and out without much explanation as to how. She would appear in the living room early evening, wearing a pink sweatshirt and jeans, and no one would even mind. 

There were theories, of course there were. Jon when asked had posited that Z was some kind of all-year round Santa, and snuck down their chimney when no one was looking. That, or shapeshifting. Spencer had a half-done theory about a pulley system and Ryan being an accomplice that he could never finish explaining. Patrick had wisely chosen to remove himself from the debate, and Pete just assumed Ryan and Z were dating, despite Ryan’s protests. 

Dallon slumped in his seat. “Hey.”

It was only minutes later that Z emerged with a bottle full of orange juice. She looked at Dallon, and for once her face didn’t seem half-covered by a smirk or inside joke. “Been reading a few articles about you buddy. How you handling it?”

“I think I need to talk to Brendon.” Dallon got up as Spencer sat down. He had skimmed a few headlines and was starting to feel sick.

  
  


_ myhartislikeabden just reblogged: _

welcometomyfuckedupmind : GUYS!!!!!!!!!! Okay like. I get it’s a huge huuuuuuuge part of this fandom that’s OBSESSED with Brendon Wentz but. Omg. I have not seen anyone talking about this mystery guy he’s making out with? Does anyone know who this is? I’m curious as FUCK lol.

endsoftheearth : yo @welcometomyfuckedupmind idk but I’m gonna reblog this so hopefully one of my followers can answer…btw can I just say a shirtless photo of b was waaaay overdue ;)

robertpattisoniloveyou : @endsoftheearth seconded haha

darknwildty2121 : omg what the fuck why are people drooling over an underage kid who didn’t ask to be famous leave it to tumblr to be this fucking gross

endsoftheeart h: @darknwildty2121 ok bts stannie

endsoftheearth : also!! someone just dmed me (they want to stay anonymous cause eff ppl) saying they are 101% sure this is a guy from brenny’s school! his name is dallon weekes :) 

welcometomyfuckedupmind : @endsoftheearth OMFGGG THIS IS THE BEST BREADBIN HAS A BOYFRIEND IM ACTUALLY SO HAPPY FOR THEM (BUT ALSO JEALOUS) (NEVERMIND) (STFU TINA STFUUU) (AT LEAST YOU HAVE NEW FAP MATERIAL NOWW) (I MEAN) (WHAT)

fedora-pilots : reblogging solely cause holy shit it’s only been an hour or two this fandom is insane

amotherfuckingfolieslut : *real* homophobia right here is no one drawing this gorgeous ass couple

or giving them a ship name

or writing fanfic about them

I’m not saying make a new emo ship but………………………………….y’know...

welcometomyfuckedupmind : @amotherfuckingfolieslut truth RIGHT HERE. Also at that bts bitch that said we were ‘drooling’ over an underage kid, fuck you. Brendon’s seventeen and hot as hell let a lonely bitch thirst.

futuredaughterinlawoffob: Falling in love with Brendon Urie from only photos is okay. Obsessing over him is okay. Convincing yourself you’ll marry him one day is okay. Masturbating to him on a daily basis is okay. Looking up where he lives is okay. Breaking into his house is okay. Getting into a hot ass threesome with him and his tall boyfriend is okay. Do what you need to cope.

justalilbitpsycho : @futuredaughterinlawoffob quality content lmaooo

im-so-not-a-bot : honestly, fuck this whole thread—shipping this Boy, a ReAL person who’s Living his life in the spOtlight, is Not only wrong, but super weird 

amotherfuckingfolieslut : @im-so-not-a-bot i see what ya did there ;) and i *R*E*S*P*E*C*T* it so hecking much

tayla-loves-patrick : BRALLON BRALLON BRALLON BRALLON BRALLON BRALLON BRALLON BRALLOOOOOOOOOON

smolbeanbandbabes : wait is

smolbeanbandbabes : wait is bren the bottom fuuuuck this sooooo messes with all my fantasies of him domming me ah craaaaaaap

lilykingartsncrafts : Hey! Lily here. A lot of my followers have been showing me this post, saying they would love to see me do something based on it. So, I’d just like to say, art is In The Works! I’ve always been a huge fan of Fall Out Boy and I used to run a Brendon fan acc on insta (before it got taken down ugh) and I am so psyched for this project! It may be a tad nsfw so let’s hope daddy tumblr doesn’t suspend me uwu. Love, Lily.

welcometomyfuckedupmind : IM CRYING THERES GONNA BE ART GUYS IM L I V I N G

peterick_shitposts_owo : this day goin down in historyyyyyyy

your-friendly-neighborhood-weirdo : absolute fucking monumental rollercoaster of a post holy shit

myhartislikeabden : BRALLON HAS ARRIVED BRALLON HAS A-FUCKING-RRIVED HELL YEAH I FINALLY HAVE A REASON TO LIVE 

  
  


Brendon sat at the top of one of the houses’ many winding staircases, phone in palm. 

He was just looking through all the posts one by one, when he felt Dallon’s hand on the back of his neck. He’d spent so much time with Dallon that he could recognize the boy just from touch alone. Normally, that would bother him. Now he had bigger things on his mind. 

“You have no idea how long it took to find you,” Dallon said, attempting to at least make Brendon smile. He didn’t succeed. 

Things were still a little stale between them, and even though Dallon knew it was his fault, he couldn’t bring himself to take responsibility. He was second guessing where his arm should be, and he never had to do that before. Just a few hours ago they could cuddle without worrying. Now their body language was closer to two strangers than the boys that shared a bed.

“The last time…something this big happened…” his fingers shaking, Brendon opened up another gossip-filled thread. “I had to switch schools.”

Dallon frowned, and took the phone from Brendon’s loose grip. “That won’t happen this time. Okay? You’re popular as hell, you can get away with a few things. And I’ll be right there, next to you.”

“Wait, but.” Slowly, Brendon began to look like he had a dash of hope. “What about—“

“I don’t care.” A lie. That’s all it was. A stupid little lie so that Brendon wouldn’t think Dallon was mad at him. Dallon sold it well, and he would regret saying it further down the line. For now though, he had his arms around Brendon Urie’s shoulders. The boy half of tumblr was losing their minds over, but would never know as well as he did. The most beautiful boy in the world. “You don’t owe me anything. I’m sorry.”

He could feel Brendon relax into him. “You’re not just my friend,” he said against Dallon’s skin, the sentence muffled but full of tension. “I’ve been saying that when introducing you, and I’m just now getting how that’s really fucking shitty. I don’t—I don’t really know what we are. What I am. But you’re not just my friend, and I never should’ve said you were.” Brendon’s words were labored, difficult. Obviously rehearsed and revised over and over in the dead of night.

Dallon smiled when he heard them. Because they were not perfect, not even close, but they were enough. For now at least. He was a not-just-friend, and that was better than nothing.

“There’s a girl in my room,” Brendon said softly. “She climbed in, and I locked the door behind her, but--she’s still, she’s still in there, Dallon I--”

There wasn’t much else to do but hold the smaller boy to his chest. “Shh. Everything’s going to be fine. We’ll be alright. I promise.”

  
  


It was rule number five: never go on your phone during an interview. He’d been told it at the very start of everything, when he wasn’t sure if Patrick still hated him or if this whole ‘music’ thing was gonna work out. A sullen manager had said the rules with an air of ambivalence as Pete desperately tried to catch Patrick’s eye from across the room.

There were rules upon rules, and some were just plain silly. Pete wasn’t really paying attention, but he remembered rule number five. The manager had got some life back into him as he said it; he even slammed the table. “Never, never, never, never. It makes you look like a dick, and this industry has enough people who are dicks and don’t hide it. You understand?”

Back then, Pete nodded. He said he understood completely. A lot had changed in the years after that meeting. Pete had somehow done things he’d never thought himself capable of, like winning countless awards, and confessing his feelings to Patrick in the back of a star-filled bar. He’d also broken a lot of rules; some official, some not. And now, in the middle of this Blue Room interview he was considering breaking rule number five. 

His phone was blowing up, and while the interviewer had moved on from the Brendon question a while ago, he sure as fuck hadn’t. He just knew it was something bad--he felt it in his gut. A sinking feeling, like when he fought with Patrick at the bowling alley all those years ago. 

Fuck it. His reputation’s been through worse. “If you’ll just give me a moment,” he said after she finished up some half-true musing about stardom. “This is rude, I’m sorry, but I’ve got to check my phone.”

She held up her hands in a general ‘go ahead’ gesture, and Pete had never felt more grateful. The first thing he saw was a frantic text from Patrick, sent about an hour ago. It was long, and went into quite a few topics, including a...photo? Of Brendon? That didn’t seem so bad. Not compared to some other things they had been through anyway.

He could feel the woman’s eyes on him, and knowing his unspoken allotted slot of time was almost up, quickly opened twitter. To see nothing other than a glorious, technicolor sketch of his youngest son shirtless. 

A photo…

Things started to click. 

And he suddenly would rather be anywhere else than right here, right now.

Pete looked up at the rather pissed-off interviewer, and realized he had a choice to make. 

Half an hour later, he was outside the Blue Room, outside the garden maze, and heading home to a house he was sure was being swarmed. It wasn’t how he’d pictured his day going at all. It wasn’t the place he’d pictured himself being, years in the past when Patrick first sang in front of him, when Andy had to tell him he was drooling, and Joe wouldn’t stop laughing. The streets were crowded and smelled like piss, but at least he could walk through them with some degree of anonymity. He wasn’t sure whether he was going to buy a car, rent one, or just get a taxi, but he knew he was getting home as soon as he could.

I belong at home. That’s what he’d said to Patrick, the day before they announced their big break from music. I used to belong on stage, but that’s not true anymore. I belong right here, with our kids. Please believe me when I say I’ll never leave you.

He still remembers Patrick pressing a kiss against his shoulder. I love you too, Pete. Now stop, please, before I sob all over your sweater.

  
  


The memory echoed around him as he pulled up to a house that he knew was his, but no longer recognized. There were the same log cabin walls, and window-side carvings, but there was also a growing surge of people clinging to those walls. Trampling on his roses and hoisting microphones through half open windows. 

Pete didn’t even make an effort to not be seen. He pushed through the people, his eyes on the front door and nothing else. One girl grabbed at his shirt and screamed, her friends joining in. A too-young news anchor thrusted a recording device in his face. Every dissonant shout or shove mixed to form one dull, omnipresent noise that repelled Pete completely. They want to know why he just left that interview. They want to know what he thinks of his son. He doesn’t give them anything--just stony silence and an even stonier glare.

He found his way inside, somehow. Patrick was waiting for him on the couch, and he’s tempted to just collapse into his husband’s side. 

What stopped him was that Patrick was shivering, and it wasn’t cold. Pete sat down next to him, and put a hand on Patrick’s thigh. “Crazy day, huh?”

“Oh you have no idea.” Patrick pulled Pete into a deep, if sloppy kiss. They made out for a bit as cameras clicked outside. “We’ve had five intruders in the six hours, I think that’s a new record for us, and yeah, it’s been bad. I’m glad you’re here.”

Pete couldn’t help but melt. “I’m glad I’m here too.” Unlike most of the things he’d said during the interview, it wasn’t a lie. 

“I don’t know where Brendon is…” Patrick said with a sigh. “I’ve been looking, but I can’t find him. I hope he’s okay.”

Pete swallowed. “This must be hell for him. How are the rest of the kids?”

“Pretty good, considering.” It was still late afternoon, but Patrick’s voice sounded sleepy. Pete figured he’d been worn out. 

“Tell—tell you what.” He looked away to see a worried Brendon listening in, just around a corner. “You can take a nap, and I’ll settle everyone in. Maybe even call the cops if we have to.”

He heard Patrick let out a low hum, then dart his eyes to tightly shut windows. A stupid reality show played on tv. Something about surviving in the wilderness. A woman scraped her ankle, and Patrick sank into the cushions. “You’re the best husband ever. I love you.”

“Nah, you are.” Patrick closed his eyes, and Pete walked over to where Brendon was, leaning against the hallway wall.

He looked scared, really fucking scared. Pete couldn’t blame him--he’d read up on everything in the car ride back. This was the kind of thing that made you want to live alone in a remote mountain range, where no one would ever send you nude fan art ever again. Still, they couldn’t hole up in that house for forever. One day he’d have to apologize for leaving the Blue Room. One day he’d have to walk outside and say sorry. Today was not that day. 

Today he hugged his son. “Hey.”

Brendon shook in his arms. “Dad...did you see the--”

“Yeah, yeah I saw it. Do you wanna talk?” Pete asked and Brendon stared at the ground. You poor kid, he thought.

“Maybe?” Brendon took a step back. “It’s just, there’s this boy, right?”

Pete nodded. “This totally hypothetical boy.”

Even as they could hear faint screams from outside, Brendon cracked a smile. “Yeah. Totally hypothetical. And even though this isn’t what I thought I’d ever be saying, I like him, a lot, maybe more than I’ve liked anyone.”

“More than your two dads who love you and support you no matter what?” Pete raised an eyebrow and feigned shock. 

Brendon’s eyes widened. “I don’t know, maybe!”

“Well then this must be one special boy. I’d love to meet him one day. Does he know you like him?” After seeing the terrified look on Brendon’s face, Pete leaned against the wall. 

“...No.”

“Well then.” Pete began walking away, but gestured for Brendon to follow him. They wordlessly traveled to the dining room, the site of so much drama not too long ago. Brendon with his head bowed, only looked up at the chandelier when Pete told him to. “One time, when you were very, very little, you swung from that godforsaken sky-lamp.”

“What? No.” Brendon shook his head.

Pete continued. “You did. I think I’d been playing too much Sia around you, and if I’m being honest I have no idea why Pat didn’t murder me on the spot. But you were a tiny thing, barely more than hair and eyes, and you swung from the chandelier, and survived. It was a miracle. I remember you begging to go on it again, like it was a ride at a carnival.”

Brendon was still somewhat awestruck at the thought of his younger self. “Wow.”

“As you grew up, you started being more afraid. You were so scared of not making the cheerleading term, I remember that, even though we all knew you were a shoe in. You also stopped telling me so much, which I get, by the way. No teen wants to talk to their dad about their problems. Not to mention I was just so glad to get you out of diapers I didn’t much care if you got a little moody. But I think of you, swinging from the chandelier and surviving, every time I’m about to chicken out of something. I think, if he can do that, then I can do this.”

The chandelier hung, motionless in the dark. Brendon didn’t say anything, but Pete could tell he knew what he meant. In the abstract, anyway. It had been a long day, hadn’t it? 

  
  


“Okay, now you can open your eyes.”

The hands in front of Spencer’s eyelids were removed, and Z quickly moved away. He stood there for a second, obviously confused. “A...drum set? Where’d you even find this?”

“First of all, you’re welcome.” She went to sit down in a little corner of the garage, farthest from the door. “Second of all, I get you’re feeling guilty about wanting Pete and Patrick to know about...all that Brendon stuff, and then it actually happening, and I get you’re feeling angry at just the world in general, so I figured this could be a neat little harmless solution. It worked for one of my brothers at least.”

“That…” His eyes began to adjust to the dark. “That makes sense actually. Thanks.”

“No problem friend.”

He sat down on the drum stool, hands in his lap. It didn’t feel bad. Or weird. A little fun actually. There were maybe a few good years of drumming lessons tucked in his brain somewhere. He could relearn them, eventually. Maybe, just maybe, he could get used to this. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh btw if your username happens to be any of the fake ones I used in this chapter, I am so, so sorry. But I will not change it I am tired.


	8. Patrick

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is technically a filler chapter but a LOT happens fellas. Almost I would just like to say I’m grateful for everyone that’s read this story, I love y’all.

_ What’s Going On With The Wentz’s? _

_ Though rockstars Pete Wentz and Patrick Stump-Wentz have taken a big departure from the music scene lately, their presence still looms large in the celeb world. Thanks, in part, to the two men’s eccentric family.  _

_ There have been disappearances: Brent, for instance, the couple’s first adopted child, is still registered as missing after cops found drugs in his possession. Scandals, too: Ryan’s mental health issues became a tabloid fixture just a few years ago, when he was rumored to harm himself, and then promptly left school. It seems even when Fall Out Boy is offstage, they can’t stop stealing the show.  _

_ It appeared Pete himself would finally set the record straight on these events during his first interview in years, at the historic Blue Room. But instead Mr. Wentz did the imaginable: shortly after damning photographs of his youngest son, Brendon, were leaked, the bassist fled the scene. Now, the question on everyone’s mind…why? _

_ Was it to do damage control? To confront his family? Or, was it because of a much darker reason, one so unexpected it seems all too possible… _

_ Are the Wentz’s heading into divorce? _

  
  


“They’re talking about divorce again.” Patrick said from his spot on the floor. “Seem to be taking it all from this one article in another stupid gossip rag.”

Pete sat down next to him, a half-empty coffee pot in one hand. “‘Gossip rag’—you’re too old fashioned, patty.” 

“Mm.” Patrick sighed. He leaned back against the wall, ignoring the half-joke. “I guess. Should we release a statement? I’m seeing teen girls on tumblr say they don’t believe in love anymore.”

“Well, someone’s gotta teach ‘em.”

“Pete!”

“Kidding, of course. Kidding. Love you!”

There were multiple shady nooks and crannies in their house, but Pete and Patrick had holed up together in the one spot that was barely used now: the studio. Built back when careers were everything and Patrick was convinced he would make a terrible dad.

Change happened, of course. Patrick became a parent, despite his worries, and cobwebs gathered on their recording devices. Therapy happened, when neither of them expected it. It surprisingly wasn’t terrible either. They promised to never care about anything but being rockstars, and broke that promise so many times it stopped mattering.

Through the years--even the rough ones--there was always a general feeling of going forward. Of learning. Improving. Retirement was falling in love all over again. Retirement was growing older and wiser. Retirement was  _ not _ going back to square one.

And yet now, Patrick felt like he had. 

His head in his hands. Pete pressed against his side. “Did you talk to Brendon?” Patrick asked, voice ever so unsteady. 

“Yup. Nice kid. You should meet him one day.”

It was a joke, obviously. Obviously. The wall was cool against Patrick’s back. Covered by blinds that blocked out sun and cameras. Already, it was hard to imagine walking out of the house, into the daylight. Time was adapting to their shared isolation. 

He’d been avoiding everyone, and he knew it wasn’t right.

It had been so long, though. Since their family had been really ‘exposed’ like this. No, that was a tabloid word. He needed to stop using those. He needed to stop taking everything so seriously, empathizing so much—this latest thing too. He should be talking to Brendon, not sitting here acting like he was the one who’d been hurt. 

Well, of course he’d been hurt. But that was years ago, and he’d given himself more than enough time to heal.

“Hey, hey.” Even when his mind was all scrambled up, it was nice to hear Pete’s voice. “You still with me babe?”

Patrick looked at his nails. “Yep.”

“Great. I’m about to give you some news, okay? It’s not good news. I just got it. I don’t like it, you won’t either. But I promise, we’re going to fix this toget—“

“Just tell me.” A while ago, Brendon had asked to paint Patrick’s nails. He said yes, expecting maybe a few coats of blue and red. Brendon had surprised him by alternating between pink and black, and crying out in anguish every time he missed a spot. Patrick joked he’d never get the polish out. Looking down on his nails now, Patrick realized he definitely had.

Pete grabbed both his hands. “Ryan’s missing. So is Z. I’m sorry.”

And just like that, going outside didn’t seem so scary anymore.

  
  


“So, is this like a Ferris Bueler style adventure, or are we going for more Ocean’s Eleven type of vibe?” Z said while carefully re-doing her braids. “‘Cause I’m feeling like this could go either way, and if I’m being honest, while I love love  _ love _ Ferris--”

“I haven’t seen either of those movies.” There was a twig and a few leaves in Ryan’s hair. Even if he had noticed, he most likely didn’t care.

Z pouted. “Nerd.”

“Yeah, that’s my role.” Only after an almost imperceptible sigh did Z realize he was staring at his phone. Eyes blank. It didn’t take much to wrestle it out of his grasp--his hands were limp. On, the screen, a stupid little graphic was flashing.

_ Tag Yourself! Peterick’s Kids Edition <3 _

_ Ryan Wentz :) aka babey boy :) _

_ -you have like, serious trauma but it’s chill lol _

_ -lowkey mad cute  _

_ -the BIGGEST nerd in the friend group  _

_ -anxietyyyyyyyyyyy ghjkassjkjfkgj _

_ -ok SOME gay vibes, but like, in a straight way ykyk _

_ -(he’s honestly my fav no cap) _

“You shouldn’t be looking at that crap.” She tucked the phone in her pants pocket, not bothering to be gentle.

“It’s all I can look at,” Ryan answered, his arms around himself. “It’s everywhere. It used to be not so bad. But now it is so bad. I don’t really know to do anymore than just...drown in it.”

If Z were a less principled and kind young woman, she might’ve slapped him. Instead, she pulled him up by his wrists, determined to stare him down, even while he towered above her. “No. No, no nopity. Not today, emo cowboy. Today, we go to a neat little protest, we eat food, and we forget about dipshits on the internet, okay? And you’re going to buy me a pair of earrings, cause I’m going to spend all my money on food and I feel like that’s a fair trade-off.”

Ryan’s cheeks turned the subtlest shade of bright pink. “Um, okay.”

Never failing to surprise him, Z pulled Ryan into a tight hug. Her head resting on his shoulder. “We don’t have to talk about anything you don’t want to, either. I’ve seen a few articles. I exist online, I’ve seen some posts and whatever. But they don’t really matter, not to me.”

“Wait, so you heard about--”

“Look--it really, really, really, just does not matter. At all.” There was a soft fierceness to her words, and it made Ryan feel better than if she’d whispered.

It wasn’t a hard decision to make, letting her guide him away from a garden outside his house, to a spot down the road where a truck was waiting. To climb in the backseat and speed off with a few protest signs poking at his shins. She was easy to trust. Even easier to follow around. 

  
  


“This is, undoubtedly, the fifty-third worst thing that has ever happened to me,” Patrick said while desperately trying to regulate his breathing. Maybe if he calmed down, the world would too. 

Pete paused. “Wow, was the first our wedding?”

Patrick wasn’t amused. “You know it wasn’t.” He pulled out his phone. “We have to call the cops.”

“I already did. They can’t do much when he’s only been missing for less than an hour. It’s balls.”

Ignoring the outside noise (still so insufferably loud), Patrick stood next to the front door. Debating. “Balls?”

“Common phrase. Like ‘it’s shit.’ All the kids are saying it now.”

“I...don’t think they are.”

“How would you know?” Pete was still typing away, though Patrick didn’t know who he could possibly be typing to. “You’re a sentimental grandma stuck in a gay rockstar’s body.”

He sputtered. “I--”

“Stop the fighting,” said a detached voice from the doorway. Patrick turned to find himself looking into Spencer’s sleep-deprived eyes.

Patrick’s hand wandered over to the doorknob. “We’re not--”

“Whatever you’re doing. Just stop.”

Pete set his phone down. “Don’t worry Spence. Patty’s just a little stressed right now. So he’s not being his nicest.”

Patrick gritted his teeth. “I am. Being. Plenty nice.”

“Never said you weren’t.”

“Yes you--” He turned to look at Spencer again, only to find he’d left. They were alone again, in the still messy living room. Patrick was almost fully pressed against the door now. Thinking.

He didn’t move as Pete walked over to stand next to him, and put his steady hand on Patrick’s shoulder. It was nice. Under different circumstances, Patrick might’ve melted. Now, he stood still. “We’re gonna look for him together, okay? Search the gardens first. He can’t have gotten far.” Pete said, kneading softly into Patrick’s back.

“Yeah.” Patrick thrust the front door wide open. “Let’s do that.”

“Together?”

“Of course.”

It wasn’t as bad as a few days ago, but the crowd outside their house remained far too much. It was simply a cruel overload, a mash-up of trash heaps and screaming faces. But Patrick was immune to it all. There was a certain power in only caring about one thing. That power allowed him to drag Pete through the crowd, and not flinch at the flashing cameras. It was all in his periphery anyway. It didn’t matter. Some things were more important than shining lights.

Just after Brent had been announced missing, Patrick remembered a similar reaction. Sympathetic calls mixed in with greedy questions. Pete kept saying they needed to find a narrative, a way to present their story so that everything would be okay. Maybe if they just focused on Brent’s drug use, or his psychological test results, a clear pattern would emerge they could all take refuge in. But years later, Patrick still felt as disjointed as he had the night he’d got the news. He’d tried his best to re-assemble himself, but deep down he knew he’d never be truly whole again. He could only work on making himself the best barely-put-together man he could be. Part of that was not making past mistakes. Not losing another kid. Not now, not ever.

After ducking behind a row of impressively tall rose bushes, the noise subsided. Pete and Patrick were alone, a little disheveled but nothing too bad. Even though he knew he shouldn’t, Patrick smiled at the way Pete’s hair looked in the sun. The way their knees dug into the ground. 

“I love you so much,” Pete whispered. 

“Love you too.”

“That was--seriously amazing. Totally not balls.”

Patrick allowed himself a small laugh. “Why thank you.”

“Oh!” Pete snapped his fingers. “Also, I have an idea. A big one.”

Patrick reminded himself to not be too hopeful. To think things through and not rest until he found his son. “You better be serious right now.”

In response, Pete began fishing around in his sweat-jacket’s pockets. “Ryan left the house with his phone. And I think as long as he keeps it on him, we’ve got a balls-proof way to track him down.”

  
  


There were certain smells that have the ability to make you feel small just by inhaling them. The smell of the sushi restaurant Ryan walked into was definitely one of them. All the colors, too, blazing yellows and reds--he almost felt like walking right out, to stare at a blank wall for a few hours. To feel safe. Z’s arm firmly gripping his arm made sure he did anything but.

Two of her brothers trailed after them, but it was hard to focus on anything other than her. She managed to shine in a paint-splattered shirt and black shorts. “So,” she began, walking up to order. “Did your parents insist on ordering for you when you were little, or are you normal?”

“Far from normal, though I don’t think that’s surprising.”

She smiled. “Aw, Ryan. You’re too much of a mood to be mentally stable.”

He shrugged. Z ordered something--the words just slipped past him, drowned out by the color and smells--and then they were sitting down, across from each other in a place that wasn’t so overwhelming. Ryan spared a moment to wonder where Z’s brothers had gone, before deciding he didn’t really care.

“Thanks for kidnapping me,” Ryan said while staring at the napkin in front of him.

Z took a sip of her water. “Anytime.”

“I don’t just…” Look at the napkin. Analyze the napkin. Become one with the napkin. “Sneak out all the time. To eat sushi and protest deforestation. This isn’t like a regular thing for me.”

“Ah, so I’m special?” Z raised an eyebrow, but he didn’t see it.

Such a cool napkin. “...Perhaps.”

“Mm.” A few more people walked into the place as Z smirked. “You’re lucky I like girls, you know that? Otherwise we would definitely be locked in a toxic and downward spiraling but still very poetic romance right now.”

Not uncharacteristically, Ryan didn’t say anything. A waiter cautiously approached their table, then seemed to think better of it.

“I respect what you’re going through a lot too,” Z continued. “I’d hate to have to grow up with camera’s lingering around me. We’re all a bit dumb sometimes, and I bet cameras will make sure to capture that shit no matter what. Not to mention romance. I’d hate to fall in love in the public eye. Be caught in some stupid wattpad-style fuckery.”

“Yeah I was never too worried about that.”

Another waiter cautiously set down a few noodle-laden plates in front of them. They were a bright yellow too, doused in some kind of sauce. “Mm?”

Ryan looked down at the chopsticks and sighed. “Dating just hasn’t really appealed to me. I don’t want to be alone, but romance, and y’know…”

“You can say sex, you’re a grown man. Well, on paper anyway. Physically, sweetie you are a child.”

“I--I really cannot. Say that.”

“So, is it like you’re completely repulsed, or...?” Her fingers practically flew as her chopsticks picked up a rather large pile of noodles.

“No.” Ryan debated asking for a fork. “I just don’t think about it.”

“So, like, aro-ace?”

He should’ve felt exposed the way she lowered her voice and clicked her chopsticks together. But it was like he couldn’t help but reveal bits of himself. Unraveling his long-held secrets, one at a time. “I’ve always had...bigger concerns on my mind than random labels. They, they just take up too much head space. When you do enough dumb stuff, you kind of learn to just stop thinking about a lot of things.”

“Vague. Nice.” She reached over to contort his fingers, and settle the two abandoned chopsticks somewhere in between them. “Like this, see?”

“Nope.”

She laughed. “Now you’re just being difficult.”

One half of his mouth made itself into a crooked smile. “I swear I’m not.”

“Well--” His fingers settled into their precarious position. “Mr George Ryan Ross Wentz, you do not seem like a dumb guy. I bet you don’t really do dumb stuff--you just do what feels right in the moment. And sometimes that’s not the perfect most absolute greatest thing to do, but it doesn’t make you a dumb person. Or even a bad person. Not really. Just a pretty cool dude with a few mistakes under his belt.”

Ryan’s throat tightened like a corkscrew.

Z noticed. Her expression shifted. “Hey, hey I’m sorry if I touched on a nerve there, I should’ve been more careful, ah shit--”

Distantly, Ryan felt his elbows collapse under him, his head hit the table, and chest shake. There was a strong urge to sink inside of her body and just wait until everything didn’t feel so bad anymore. But Z was there, and she deserved better than that. Much better. 

“I--” Ryan swallowed again and again, not daring to look up. “I didn’t really--things were just so awful. Torture. I figured, if I--if I made it so they thought--I wouldn’t have to. Go there anymore. But when I saw dad’s face, I--I couldn’t tell him. Then, they did--the examination, and--”

It was then he felt her arms around his middle. She must’ve gotten up, and moved to sit beside him. Sometime. There were cold trails across his cheeks. “Don’t worry…” she said, holding him tight. “It’s okay Ryan, it’s okay. You’re good. You’re gonna be okay.”

People were definitely staring. Without a doubt. Judging him based on tidbits and assumptions. Ryan surprised himself by letting go, and slumping in his seat. His mouth was still spewing tidbits, and his hands were still clenched. But he wasn’t alone. At the very least, he wasn’t alone in this.

“It’s okay...we’re okay. People are fragile. Don’t worry, Ryan. Don’t worry, you don’t need to.”

“I--”

“You’re gonna be okay. I promise. This is going to be the greatest day ever, I vow. I’m making a vow right now, and that’s not the kind of thing you do lightly, so I suggest you listen to me.”

“But--what if--”

“Trust me.”

He did.

  
  


“So--” Pete huffed. “Just a few more blocks, and I think we’ll find him.”

Patrick stared up at the city lights. They’d moved past garden territory now, and were firmly tracing the little blinking dot on Pete’s screen. Deep into the area of L.A. they used to scoff at. “This doesn’t make sense. Ryan hates crowds. He hates loud noises. He used to wear headphones to kindergarten, Pete you remember that. Why would he come here?”

“I mean, it’s just a theory, but I think he’s doing it for love.” Pete said, his voice sounding scattered. 

“What--”

“Just a thought.

“No.” Patrick found himself getting angry, even though he didn’t really know why. “Tell me why you think Ryan’s in love.”

“He’s just been acting a little...strange lately. Sometimes he’ll say hi to me when he walks by and he’ll do a little wave. He eats breakfast and actually spends time chewing his food instead of just speeding out the door. A few nights ago, he mentioned wanting to stay the night at that girl, Eliza’s place. It’s not much, but still--”

Patrick chuckled, to bite back the bitterness inching up his throat. “He’s opening up. Ryan’s opening up, and our first instinct is to wonder if he’s sane.”

“Oh.” Pete exhaled against a street pole. “Yeah.”

“We are officially the worst parents in the world.” 

“Okay, but I-I mean--” Pete tugged on a single strand of his brown hair, and Patrick wondered if he’d ever seen anything more adorable. “We haven’t killed our kids. That has to count for something. Besides who were the parents in that stupid incest novel, flowers in the...whatever?”

Patrick did his best impression of a fed-up librarian. “Flowers in the Attic. There aren’t any parents in it, that’s the problem. Well, there’s a mom and a stepfather, but they’re kinda busy sucking up to their rich parents to raise their kids. Hence the attic. The whole melodramatic setup. Oh my--I, you read these books, why am I explaining them?”

“I like when you talk,” Pete said simply. 

“Thank goodness,” Patrick said, and took a look at the just-a-half-mile away cluster of people. “Otherwise we might have a problem. Well, another problem.”

“Right, speaking of which…” Pete slowly raised a finger, pointing it in a direction Patrick couldn’t help but follow. Slowly, he saw a shop window in the distance, a pair of hugging figures--and a burst of fluffy brown hair. Tie-dye t-shirt. Ryan Wentz. Eating sushi. Laughing. 

Patrick almost screamed. “Oh, dear...he’s here. Our boy. Right there. We’ve gotta go over to him, before they leave.” Pete just grinned. 

Then he felt a tap on his shoulder. Patrick turned around to find the one thing he couldn’t run away from: a small group of kids, each holding a pen and photo. All asking with bright eyes for his autograph. Gossiping back and forth in stage whispers. As Patrick began signing, Ryan and Z got out of their seats, and slipped away into the afternoon.

  
  


“So. What we know--we’re not leaving this prison anytime soon.” Brendon lay himself down on the dark blue carpet. He’d found another room to wander and pretend to be productive in--the library. Dallon had joined him, of course.

“I’m not sure I’d call this prison,” Dallon muttered from between Brendon’s legs. “More like--” he pressed a quick kiss to Brendon’s collar “--an enormous effing mansion.”

Brendon traced a hand down Dallon’s back. “Feels like prison.”

“It’s not though.”

“How about this,” Brendon said as he kissed Dallon’s nose. “Agree to disagree. But anyway, when we can leave, what are you going to do first?”

Dallon gently slid his hands up and down Brendon’s sides. It was almost an instinct, at this point--to touch Brendon however he could. “I don’t really want to leave here. I like it here.” Dallon admitted.

“Hm. Boring. I’m going to get me a fake ID, then just get absolutely hammered. That’s the real shit, you know?”

In maybe not his finest moment, Dallon grasped at the front of Brendon’s shirt. “Not really, no.”

  
  


It was Ryan Wentz’s worst enemy: a group of a hundred or more people. He didn’t know how he’d managed to get this far, with Z sticking close to him, a giant protest sign lingering above her head. Ryan hadn’t the chance to see what it’d said, but based on the pictures, it had something to do with trees being good. Which Ryan agreed with. Trees  _ were _ good. They were nice and good listeners and they needed to be protected.

Maybe that was how he’d got this far. Stuck in a mid-afternoon haze and not entirely sure he wanted to leave it. Maybe friendship was a drug, making him unsteady but able to stand on his own two feet. Maybe he had liquid courage now, hanging onto Z’s side.

Half-catchy chants rose and fell among the clumps of people. A masked person on a pedestal with a megaphone was barking out orders no one was listening to. Someone, somewhere, gave Ryan a pair of dented sunglasses, and he surprised himself by wearing them. 

“You’re a natural protester George,” Z said, yelling to be heard over the chants. “Today? We end deforestation. Tomorrow? Capitalism. After that? Who knows. Complete word domination is ours, my friend.”

He would’ve responded, maybe even in a somewhat witty way, if suddenly the air hadn’t been knocked out of him, by a strong kick to his back.

Just like that, Ryan was down.

  
  


Pete took another short break from running to gather his breath. They’d been tracing burnt-brick alleys for a while now, trying to get a signal. “Maybe if you gave me a piggyback ride, this would go faster.”

“The shorter one can’t give the ride, dumbass.” Patrick shot Pete a warning look before glancing down at the little flickering dot once again. “If you make an innuendo right now, I’m divorcing you.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“Don’t underestimate m--oh hell yeah. The dot’s blinking, Pete. He’s close. We’re close.”

“Did you just swear?” Pete asked slowly.

Patrick put a hand over his mouth, then removed it. “Look, we need to move, quickly, toward--” Another glance at the phone, and Patrick saw red. “Crap, it’s doing it again. Pete, why’s your phone doing the thing again? The light. It’s off. What do I do?”

“Maybe calm down a little first. Then we can talk about this.”

It was perfectly reasonable advice. The only problem with it being Patrick didn’t want to calm down, not in the slightest. His grip on the phone tightened. “No time. We need to get to Ryan, I have this really awful feeling--”

_ “We have to get to Brent, I have this really awful feeling.” _

_ “Pat, he’s gone. You saw it yourself, he hopped on that bus, we need to go home and rest.” _

_ “No, no Pete you don’t understand, this feeling, it’s really bad. We have to get to him now. He misses us, now way he doesn’t. And my feeling--” _

_ “Pat, it’s late. Please. We’ll call the police later, they’ll find him, and it’ll be like he never left. He’ll tell us all the things he wrote in those burnt journals, and we won’t have to rely on scribbles on drying walls. We’ll be a neat little family unit, together in our separate compartments. That’s all I ever wanted for us. I’d never let the love of my life down.” _

_ “Promise?” _

_ “Promise. Always.” _

The scene flashed in the back of Patrick’s mind, and the phone fell to the ground. Pete was still looking at him. Maybe some horrible transformation had taken place, to make the monstrous thoughts in his head finally visually apparent.

“You look pale,” Pete said, eyes big. “Pat--”

“Ryan’s hurt. I know he is. He’s already hurt too, and we couldn’t do anything to stop it.” As soon as Patrick finished his sentence, his legs gave out beneath him.

“Damn, are you a prophet?” Z walked into the alleyway, holding a body in her arms. She was ever so slightly luminous as the sky grew darker. Her tone turned urgent as her glow began to fade. “Some crazy--I’m assuming a fan, though who knows--tackled Ryan. He’s not doing so great.” 

Then, just as quickly as he’d collapsed, Patrick got up. “We’ll take him home,” he said, a bit harsh. “Where he belongs. With us.”

Pete nodded, taking Ryan gently from Z’s tired arms. “We are a neat little family unit after all.”

  
  


It was when Pete, Patrick, Ryan and Z were about halfway home that Brendon heard the crash. He wasn’t totally surprised; at this point a home invasion seemed about on schedule. Just another problem for him to overcome. He inched towards the source of the sound with a baseball bat behind one shoulder, and Dallon just behind his other. 

Proving how low a point they’d sunk. Brendon was pleasantly surprised to see a female journalist had broken in, her head just sticking through the now-smashed window. She seemed delightfully unapologetic about the entire situation. “I’ve got a few questions, if that’s alright. Well, really just one,” she said, and Dallon could hear the click of a recording device.

“Just one,” Brendon answered, pressing back into Dallon.

“Well, uh,” the lady swung her head back and forth, seeming to try and point at Dallon, Brendon, and back again. “What is all this, huh? What’s the scoop? Brendon, who is this guy to you?”

He didn’t want to hear it. He wanted to be back in the library, on top of each other. Back in the bedroom, making sick, dirty jokes. Dallon wanted the simple life with Brendon. Domestic. Everlasting. A little house somewhere and a secret code. Instead he got this, an ability to hear Brendon’s words before he said them.

“He’s my friend.”

  
  


_ TOP SECRET! PATRICK STUMP’S WEDDING VOWS! DO NOT READ! _

_ Dear Pete, _

_ I knew you were going to look for these, since you have to outshine me and all, even on ~my~ special day. (Technically ours, I know, but babe, you have a problem.) So I thought I’d leave you a fun little decoy, along with this hopefully-not-too-long note: _

_ Thank you for dealing with me. When we first met, that was a mess. And you stuck around. Ready to be calm and cool no matter how much I put you through. When we started getting famous and everything, the press would always label you as wild, and me as the laid-back one. I would think: oh only if they knew! I was a spoiled brat when you met me. Filling up on substances instead of anything else. I’m a half broken fiancee now. But you make me feel whole again, and for that I can’t thank you enough. I love you.  _

_ \--Patrick _

_ Dear Patty: _

_ Okay, you got me. I’m glad you know me well enough to play (mean!) pranks on me and then make me cry because of fucking happy I am that you’re mine. Seriously. No one’s going to love me this much, and I don’t think I’ll ever love someone like I love you. It’s cheesy to say soulmates, but I see you and the word just pops into my head. And for the record: you’re not broken. You were always whole. All I ever did was remind you of it. Love you so much. _

_ \--Pete Da Man _

  
  


Hi Brendon.

I found this paper in the living room, and I figured I’d write at least a quick goodbye. I love you. I love you more than I should. That probably isn't too surprising to you—I was smitten since day one. But I can’t keep living with you if you keep calling me your friend.

I’m obviously not. I thought we agreed, finally. I guess not.

Bye,

Dallon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please interact with me I need human connection in these desperate times.


	9. Spencer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just a tad of conflict resolution...or is there? Also sorry for the late update.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Second to last chapter!! We are getting to end my friends!!!

Brendon found the note at exactly three am the next day.

It was after a few final youtube tutorials, and several last touches on his slideshow presentation, that Spencer decided he was ready. It was all right and fun playing drums in the garage, fumbling with beats and rhythm, but he wanted to get a little more serious with it. And to do that, he needed lessons. Preferably with a private tutor that wouldn’t talk down to him, or force him to only play old songs. Surely Pete and Patrick could afford it—they just needed convincing. Thus, presentation.

He’d been working on this maybe a little longer than he should’ve. But that was how he did things now. Life was unpredictable, his family even more so. Getting things done meant rigorous planning and not being afraid to make do with what you had. It also meant stepping aside. 

Spencer considered himself, well, not bland, but pretty darn normal compared to the people lived with. His problems paled in comparison. His struggles fell flat. So if when the time came to try and do something, he found himself alone in his room while a mini war raged outside, Spencer was fine with that. Really. It wasn’t anything new. 

It’s for those reasons that Spencer wasn’t so surprised when his walk downstairs was interrupted by a sobbing Brendon, clutching a scrap of paper in his fist. 

He set his computer on the ground. “Something wrong?”

“Everything,” Brendon choked out. The more he looked at Brendon’s face, the more worried Spencer got. It was all splotchy and red. Dotted with fingernail marks. “Everything is wrong. He’s gone, so is my sanity, and I just tried to make some toast and--”

Sooner or later Brendon was shaking in Spencer’s outstretched arms. “You’re stuttering again. Who’s ‘he’?”

“The toast came out absolutely burnt, Spence. Almost as dark as Ryan’s hair that one christmas. Cold, too. I got to it late, and it was cold as hell, my god. Basically stone. Maybe I’m cursed. First my parents abandon me, then Dallon abandons me, now the toast--”

The image of Dallon, stumbling out of Brendon’s room, flashed through Spencer’s mind. No one could’ve had all the puzzle pieces right then, but this was no great mystery. He felt like pushing Brendon out of his arms and down the stairs. “Dallon’s gone?”

“That's what I said.” Brendon sniffed. “I also said a few other things if you happened to be fucking listening.”

Dallon, walking away. Whispers behind doors. Gossip. Missing skirts. The paper in Brendon’s tight grip. Spencer’s hands reached out to take it—

“What? No!” Brendon jumped back. “That’s mine! You can’t have it! I hate you!”

“What are we in, kindergarten?” Spencer did his best impression of a glare.

Brendon wasn’t impressed. “You can’t see it! Ever!” His back was now against the soft beige wall, and his chattering teeth betrayed the angry look in his eyes. It was hard not to analyze the way his whole body was contradicting itself. Spencer swore against getting involved in too much sibling drama, but analyzing from afar was okay. Safe, even. 

Then, of course, Jon popped up from behind a gold-plated display case. “I saw it,” he said with a familiar spaced-out drawl. “Real meaty stuff. Brendon basically no-homoed his soulmate. Heck, I’d be sad too.”

“Jon, I told you to stop censoring yourself,” Spencer said, all while cautiously approaching Brendon.

“Oh yeah. Sorry man. I’m all fricked up.”

The paper was getting more and more crumpled in Brendon’s half-white fist. Spencer reminded himself it’s stupid to be scared of your brothers. “Bren. Please. Let me see if I can help. That’s what I do.” 

Silence. Spencer wasn't used to silence.

“Come on. Give me some credit--I’ve never made things worse.”

If Brendon noticed the resigned way Spencer said those words, he didn’t show it. Something behind his eyes settled, and with the utmost care the note was passed from hand to hand. For such a weighty object, Spencer took it in easily. It amounted to not much more than a few scribbles and a signed name. Clearly written with shaky fingers.

It also did little more than confirm what Spencer already knew. He folded it up, and looked Brendon right in the eyes. “You’re an idiot.”

“Damn, that’s a callout.” Jon tsked. “Can breadbin take the heat?

“Stop trying to give me nicknames Jon, they’re dumb and you’re addicted to weed.” Brendon crossed his arms.

“And you’re gay.” Jon blinked. “Like, what else is poppin?”

“He’s got you there,” Z said from a nearby doorway.

Spencer jumped. “When the fu--”

“Like,” Z started chewing, on what he assumed was gum. “Ten, fifteen minutes ago? Jon showed me the love note, so.”

“All I ever wanted--” Brendon started sobbing again, “--was some privacy in this giant ass house. And some non-burnt toast. And to not be attacked again and again for presenting my original thoughts.”

Seeing a certain look in Z’s eye, Spencer decided to step back. So did a still vaguely unaware Jon. Brendon didn’t realize until Z’s hand was digging into his shoulder. “Listen up you whiny little prick,” she said, her words backed up by a gravelly undertone. “I’m not going to sugarcoat shit here. Ryan, your brother, is in the hospital right now. Critical fucking condition. You know what that means, ‘critical’?”

Brendon swallowed. “W-well--”

“It means his frail little body is dealing with some real ass challenges, Brenny. If it weren’t for the simple fact that I’m not family, believe me, I’d be by his side right now. Because he’s my friend. I like him--I trust him. I don’t like you. Not in the slightest.” Throughout it all, she maintained an acid-red smile. “Still, while I’m here, I might as well do a little reality check. I’ve talked a bit with Dallon these past few days. I get why you fell for him. He’s tall, smart, not too self-absorbed. ”

There was a faint cough from down the hall, but it couldn’t have bothered anyone. Jon’s eyes were big as saucers. His mouth rhythmically opening and closing. “Miss Berg…” Spencer heard him whisper.

“He deserves someone who’ll be kind to him. Who won’t shit on his heart whenever their brain does a little fuck up.” Somehow, Brendon thought, it would be better if she were yelling. 

Z saw the skin under her fingernails flush red. “And right now, Brendon? You’re not that. At all. You’re like the discount version of the discount version of that. So if you want your precious dally boy, you’re going to have to fucking improve, or else I will take that tall string bean on a road trip, and I will, believe me I will, find him another mans. Got it?”

“Yep.” Brendon’s throat felt dry.

“Good!” She released his shoulder from her grasp. Jon exhaled. “That’s all I wanted to say really. I’m gonna head over to the hospital where Ryan’s at. See if the nurses will give me another chance.”

And with the smallest of hand waves, Z was gone from their sight. 

Not long after, Brendon was lying on the floor. Spencer knew better than to ask him to get up. He decided to walk away, and trust in Z’s words having had some effect on his younger brother. It had taken years of trying to coax out some remnant of a normal family for him to realize sometimes, it just wasn’t his place. A lot of times, it just wasn’t his place. 

Dear Brendon,

Here is a letter you will never read. Because we’re not living together anymore, and also because I’m a coward. Not sure you care, but I’m back at my dad’s. He’s mad, but that’s nothing new. At least this time it’s understandable; I ran away. I ran away to you, another boy, because that’s the kind of person I wanted to be.  
I’m not mad at you, by the way. I don’t think I can feel ‘mad’ anymore. Or whatever it is. Hate to be a typical teen, but it’s all whatever. You’re whatever. I’m whatever. We’re whatever.

Love,

Dallon

peterick_shitposts_owo just tweeted:

Guys….Dallon fucking LEFT Brendon’s house…...I’m having trouble coping honestly. I hope they’re alright. My little babey boys….

kelseywantschicken: @peterick_shitposts_owo do you think they’re breaking up???? :((

peterick_shitposts_owo: @kelseywantschicken probably :/...I might not be active for a bit. I’m dealing with exams, and then this on top of everything...it’s just too much. Peace and luv babes xx

Spencer thought it was only fitting he found Patrick hiding in the sun. Crouching in the one sunny place in the study. Slideshow forgotten, he decided a speech would have to do. Maybe Patrick would mistake his stricken expression as commitment to the craft. 

He was stricken, after all. Basic familial bond was something that often did him a great deal of bad, and this morning so far had been no exception. 

The second Patrick saw him, he cleared his throat. “Oh, Spence. Sweetie. I almost didn’t see you there.”

“Yeah. I, um, had something I wanted to ask you?”

“Oh!” Patrick’s mouth broke into a half-smile. “Sure! Sit right next to me, okay? I’ll get to it in a second. Let me show you this little thing first though.”

Spencer sat down. Now he saw there was a photo album open in Patrick’s lap. He did his best to hold back a groan.

Every once in a while Patrick got like this—lost in the past. Maybe it wasn’t terrible to reminisce every now and then, but Patrick always took it one step further. Buying perfumes that reminded him of their elementary school. Tracking down old teachers and babysitters just to talk. And of course, photos. Scrapbooks. Anything he could get his hands on and stare at.

And Spencer would never understand it. News articles, biographies, and song lyrics all said the same thing: the early years of him and his brother’s lives had been the hardest on Patrick. By all accounts they were awful memories. So why keep remembering them?

It wasn’t his place to argue though. So he let Patrick pull out a picture of a much younger Brendon, facing the camera, thoroughly covered in blue and yellow paint. “Look at this one,” Patrick sighed. “His hair’s almost green.”

“Prank Fridays,” Spencer supplied.

“Yes, exactly!” The photo went back in it’s slot. “We used to do that every--”

“Month.”

For that, he got a nudge to the shoulder. “Every month, yes. All members of the house against each other in ‘war.’ Team-ups optional. That was from when Pete tried to turn it into an impromptu game of paintball, and of course you boys got the worst of it.”

Normally, Pete was a shining beacon of chaos and confusion. He got worse during Prank Fridays--becoming merciless. He didn’t care what wreckage he wrought in his path to victory. Spencer had a very real kind of fear reserved for those days when Pete would escalate things even further, becoming a sort of prank demon. 

“Yeah.”

“I wonder why we gave it up.”

“Ryan got third-degree burns from a stray fireball on Christmas Eve,” Spencer said slowly.

“Oh. Right.”

“He almost died.”

“I--I’m not denying that.”

Before Spencer could take advantage of the pause, and recite his speech, Pete’s heavily cloaked figure appeared in the doorway. “Speaking of Ryan, patty we’ve gotta go or we’ll miss our ride,” Pete said.

Patrick’s mind seemed to settle on the one thing it had been avoiding. The photo album fell to the floor with a small clunk. “Thank you so much for reminding me!”

“Wait, I--” Spencer struggled to remember the careful words he’d written on slides. In his stammer, Patrick moved quickly across the room.

“So, so sorry! Will be back soon!” Patrick blew a kiss as he walked away on Pete’s arm. “They let us visit him in shifts. Can’t miss ‘em. Be back soon, I promise. We will bring food.”

“A lot of food. You’ll get fat.”

“Peter!”

“Honey, you know I don’t mean it.”

Spencer counted to ten in his head. His parents left around eight, and at nine, his fists unclenched. The drums were waiting for him, back in the garage with a pair of noise-cancelling headphones. 

Dear Brendon,

I keep telling myself it could be worse. That’s how I got through most everything before we met. A single stupid coping mechanism, and Matt. I never told you about him—you were too busy with other things—but he was my only friend for a while. ‘Friend’ is generous, of course. We texted occasionally, and he got me shitfaced on my sixteenth birthday. 

For a long time I thought that was all the human connection I was gonna get. Happy is relative when you’re alone. You made me hate being alone.  
Cheesy as it sounds, I thought I could be okay, hiding my feelings with you lying right next to me. 

I thought we might work out. 

Love, 

Dallon 

Deep in the uncanny valley of dreams and reality, George Ryan Ross Wentz felt a gum wrapper be pressed into his palm.

“Hey, hey.” Z flicked his forehead once, twice. “Wake up nerd. I didn’t come all this way for you to be asleep.”

Ryan’s eyes dutifully opened. His brain registered, bit by bit, the quirks of his surroundings. The way one white wall melded into the beeping machine, and the machine into the plastic curtain. Above all, there was her. Z. Staring down at him. Her normally braided hair falling down to her shoulders. 

He blinked. “Hello.”

She forced his fingers to close around the gum. “Chew this. The doctors say they need proof your jaw is relaxing, or something.”

Not just a wrapper then. He looked down at his arm, only to see a mummy-like bandage wrapped around his wrist and elbow. It itched. “What—“

“They said it might be itchy there. On behalf of your immune system, I’m sorry. Now eat the gum m’dude.”

His hand lifted up, and he felt a kind of soreness in his limbs he’d never experienced before. But he knew she was there to explain. That made everything less scary—a friend by his side, ready to sort out the disorienting world. “Okay.”

Still lying on his back, Ryan managed to start chewing. Mint. Awful. But okay. She was being awfully patient with him. 

A few more objects in his line of vision set into place. The thin blanket covering him was cold. The cords attached to him, spiky and bright. There was a coiled sensation building up in his stomach that made him wonder if he’d been given anything. 

“I’m pretty sure your dads are coming to visit you soon, by the way. If you want I’ll say you just passed out, like, right before they came. And I’ll do the talking.”

“Mm.” Chewing, chewing.

Z tapped her fingers on the bed. “Okay, I’m already doing the talking, but you know what I mean.”

Too late Ryan realized he couldn’t spit the gum out anywhere. On the bright side, it didn’t hurt to twist his head, or stuff the gum on one side of his cheek. “I—I don’t know.”

“That’s chill too. We can flip a coin.” She casually eyed the loudest beeping machine. “I checked with a few nurses. They say you’ve been doing pretty well. That you have a frail ass body, but somehow you’re gonna survive. Which is great. It’s really great.”

He was going to live. Had that been in doubt? 

As her voice grew softer, she stared harder at the machine. “You know I’d miss you, right? That you’re my friend?”

“Yeah.” Not even needing to explain, he reached for her hand. “Yeah, I do.”

“Good.” She took it.

Their hands swayed back and forth for a bit, intertwined. Ryan giggled, then put a bandaged hand over his mouth.

“Oh my god, you laughed!” 

“No. I did not.” The hand fell away.

She couldn’t be deterred. “You did. And it’s the best. I get to meet a happy Ryan. A happy boy. This is the best.”

“I...don’t know.” Maybe it was the drugs. Or the needles. But there was a fog settling in over Ryan’s mind again. “He might need some time.”

“I’ll wait,” she said, easily.

Ryan shook his head, and the fog seemed to part a bit. Rushing in to take its place, an ache around his temples appeared just as quick. Along his body, there was a fair selection of surface-level scrapes. He knew those would be cared for with band-aids and lotion. The real reason he was in here had to do with the tubes near his stomach and legs, and the dull pain in his head. No good thinking about though. It just made everything worse.

Of course, by distracting himself from one thing, he ran right into another. He surprised himself by not immediately giving into fear. And making a choice. “I’m gonna talk to my dads. You don’t need to lie.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. I’ll do that.”

“Okay.” Z held onto him. “I’m not leaving, anytime soon.”

And for the first time in his long and storied history of being in and out of hospitals, Ryan knew he could rely on someone. He almost fell asleep right there, with her gum in his mouth. But of course, that didn’t happen.

Pete shoved open the door with a bang. His face was triumphant, and hair less so. Patrick was right behind him. Ryan lifted himself up, and spat out the gum. It landed just inside the tiniest of tins, and he collapsed right back on the bed with a groan. Seconds later, he felt Pete and Patrick’s shadows next to him.

Z left without another word.

“Sweetie.” Patrick put a hand on his cheek. “You’re warm. They said you’re improving—we’re very proud of you.”

Pete sniffed. “I’m mad as hell for you scaring me into thinking you might die, you little shit.”

Ryan turned his head so he could only see Patrick, beaming down on him. “He’s a little confused right now,” Patrick said. “But that doesn’t matter.”

A pit in his chest. No drugs involved.

Ryan did the best throat-clearing he could muster. Because there was no going back now. Somehow being at the point of no return wasn’t so scary anymore though. “I have to tell you both something.”

They sat down on either side of him, eyes wide. “We’re all ears,” Pete said.

“A year ago—“ he forced the words out one syllable at a time “—I had that accident? With the broken glass?”

More than three hundred and sixty five days later, a pink splotch of a scar still graced his palm. It was an unfriendly reminder of something he wished he could forget.

Pete nodded. 

“It wasn’t an accident.”

Patrick exhaled. “Oh, sweetness—“

“I did it to myself. At lunch, with the first thing I found. There were just these kids that followed me around, and I couldn’t escape them. Every day I couldn’t, couldn’t do anything. They never, they never hit, or tried to, but, they, they did other things.” Tumbling over his phrases, Ryan felt for a moment like he was running out of air. “Taunts. Rhymes. I couldn’t fight back, so.”

“You could’ve told us.” Pete’s hands tightened their grip on his blanket. Squeezed. 

No. “I couldn’t,” Ryan answered, hoping he didn’t come off as too dumb. “They would keep finding me. Again and again. There wasn’t anyone at the school who was my friend, they made sure of it. I figured if I, if I left a mark—maybe people would listen. And do something.”

Pete didn’t stop getting more and more tense. “We would’ve listened to anything you said, Ryan. Anything.”

Feeling a slight salt sting at the corner of his mouth, Ryan realized he was crying. It didn’t stop him from staring at the tiles on the ceiling. Counting their grooves instead of honing in on Patrick’s warm hand on his shoulder. “I didn’t know that.”

“Jesus, kid—“

“I didn’t want you to be sad. You asked me to tell you it was an accidental scratch, and I didn’t want to disappoint—“

Ryan’s still-bruised torso was pulled into a tight hug by Pete’s arms. “You could never disappoint me,” Pete said shakily. “Ever, kid. Ever.”

For a moment Ryan stood still. The next, he faded into the hug. It was at an awkward angle but he still didn’t—couldn’t—mind. Not with those words in his head. Spinning around and around and somehow not making him sick. Making him smile. Again. 

Patrick’s fingers traced his surface cuts, even as Pete refused to let go. “We love you, Ryan,” Patrick murmured. “You’re our kid. Our son. We’re not going to be mad at you if you talk too much or too little, if you feel awful one day, or if someone’s bothering you. We couldn’t—it’s not how we’re made.”

Ryan felt himself weaken. Another round of tears threatened to break free. “I don’t talk a lot. I don’t think I’m ever going to. I’m sorry.”

“That’s fine,” Pete said. Almost growled. “Swear to fucking god, that’s completely fine. I don’t mind.”

“But—“

Pete just pulled him closer. With a jolt, Ryan realized he was crying too. “I really fucked up, huh? I really fucked up. I don’t want you to feel like this. You’re my son. I love you. Always.”

For once, Ryan’s throat didn’t tighten up. “I love you too dad.”

“I’m not going to lie, I do miss your voice sometimes. But I’m not the boss of you, okay? No one is. And dear god, I would burn down the north and south poles to make you happy.” It had been a while since Ryan was clung to. He found it wasn’t bad. “Don’t ever think you need to apologize over that. Okay?”

“O-okay.”

Pete’s faint beard began scratching at Ryan’s neck. “We accept things that aren’t totally ‘normal’ in this family. Remember when Jon was a surprise dyslexic?”

“Well, yeah—“

“And that was just another thing about him. We accepted that because Jon was our family, and because he deserves to be accepted. The kitten you kept in your room in seventh grade, a little harder to work with, but we made do.”

Ryan’s eyes widened. “You know about Mabel?”

“Everyone knew about Mabel,” Patrick added. Then frowned. “Mabel had diarrhea. All over my favorite coffee table.”

“I’m sorr—“

“No!” Pete shouted. “Stop saying that. The cat was a delight.”

Ryan nodded. 

“How about…” Patrick’s tone was soft, his touch softer. “We get pancakes? In a few hours, they say they might let you go on a little trip.”

Ryan nodded. “Yes please.”

“I’m buying.” Pete reluctantly released him. “Ryan, don’t you even think of holding any bit of your order back. I’ll fucking go into million dollar pancake debt for you, I don’t care.”

For the second time that day, Ryan giggled. “Thanks dad.”

Dear Brendon,

Ah, fuck it.

I miss you. So much. I hate it here I hate it here I hate it here. I hate you but not as much. Not nearly as much. I couldn’t hate you. Fuck. I’ll never hate you. 

Love,

Dallon

wentzbae just tweeted:

my friend/fuck buddy @well_cunswealed who lives near Bren n Pete n the crew says she saw Dallon leave the house with a bunch of fuckin bruises on his face?? Don’t want this to be real, but wtf??? #weloveyoudallon

Sitting on a little black stool. Drumsticks in hand. This was usually when it happened—Spencer’s tutorial-laced brain would guide his hands to pick out some random rhythm, which he could build on for hours. The stress would leak out his pores and onto the kit. He would be alright. 

Except now, he couldn’t do any of that. For whatever reason—probably that Pete and Patrick hadn’t been back with Ryan for a while—his brain couldn’t find a single beat. He was stuck. Trapped between the urge to do something and the relevant impossibility of the task.

His phone dinged.

From Pete: i am the worst father ever 

Spencer shrugged out a reply. Maybe he’d stepped on a LEGO or something. 

To Pete: no. You’re not. Where’s Ryan

From Pete: that’s the problem.  
From Pete: he’s a victim of my terrible teachings/everything yk  
From Pete: i’m buying him ice cream because patty says it goes good with pancakes 

Spencer almost fell to the ground. Mystery fucking solved. Thank god. 

To Pete: come home soon.

From Pete: pat might but i’m nwot  
From Pete: *not

Seeing there was no point anymore (though still wondering what caused Pete to go into crisis mode) Spencer slipped the phone in his pocket. Patrick was coming home, probably. He had time to ask again. So he needed to ‘practice’. 

He closed his eyes for just a moment, and—

“How did you know?”

—Sighed. Spencer turned around to see a much less bereft-looking Brendon, sitting right behind him. On the floor. He’d been there for god knows now long. Watching, probably. Waiting.

He just rolled with it. “What do you mean?”

“Throughout all of this…” Brendon’s voice was much smaller than he was used to hearing. “When I talked about, you know, possible feelings for guys...you never seemed surprised. How’d you know?”

The meaning of Brendon’s words was pretty clear around the edges. Spencer decided to push him anyway. “How’d I know that…?”

Brendon huffed. “That I maybe didn’t totally always like girls? You know. The possibility of it I guess..”

“Oh, that.” Spencer set his drumsticks aside. The garage was filled with random tools anyway, and they blended right in. “When you were younger, you were more open with me. You told me all the thoughts you had and...it wasn’t hard to figure stuff out.”

“I outed myself without knowing it?” Brendon’s face showed just a touch of lightness. “That’s on brand I guess.”

Spencer laughed. “Pretty much, yeah.”

“Well.” Brendon clicked his tongue. “What else do you know about me, Mr. Sleuth?”

Spencer pretended to deduce for a moment. “You’re really, really in love with him. You have been for a while.”

Brendon’s clicks stopped. “Who’s ‘him’?”

“Don’t play dumb.”

That was all it took for Brendon to begin to feel trapped. “And why do you think that?” He asked, his voice almost a whisper.

“I don’t think you would care this much if you didn’t love him. It’s only been about a day since he left, but you’ve been wandering this house looking lost for hours. You don’t know what to do with yourself. You don’t check the mirror anymore. And when Z implied you might not get him back, you fell to the ground.” Evidence. He saw, he observed, he remembered. Evidence of Brendon Urie falling in love.

New plan. When Brendon left the garage, he was going to call Patrick, beg for drum lessons like a man drowning, and not stop until he got them. 

“We were always so distant. Even at the start,” Brendon said. Voice clear. “He had his secrets, I had mine. It didn’t matter because we weren’t that close. But I saw snapshots of him, in between everything. Little snapshots. And they made my day.” 

“Little snapshots, huh?”

“Never claimed to be a poet, you dick.”

“You know—“ Spencer sighed. “Z spent some time with Dallon. She’s got a pretty good way of getting into people’s heads. She’ll probably help you with him if you can convince her. Granted she doesn’t really like you right now, but. Eh. Things change all the time.”

Brendon smiled up at him. “Thanks Spence.”

“No problem.”

“For everything. Past and present.”

“No problem.”

Dallon--

Hello imaginary Dally. I’ve got one goal from now on:

-getting you back

\--Brendon :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh! Fun fact! The girl who helped come up with almost all the plot for this fic (the lovely talented miss Ryan/Ryry)? Her birthday's today!! :))) Such a fun fact ikik

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos will make me sacrifice my firstborn to you. And also a fistful of candy, if you're lucky.


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